Below
by Spinner Dolphin
Summary: "These disappearance cases," Sherlock told John, "I've seen them—the people don't come back. Sometimes I find them. And they're frightened of the strangest things..." John and Sherlock slip through the cracks, and survive down there by the skin of their teeth.
1. Chapter 1

You really don't have to know anything about Neverwhere to read this-it's John's POV and he has no idea what's happening, so you'll be right with him :). Neverwhere spoilers abound, though! Also: London Below is fairly violent. So, **trigger warnings for violence**, and for a casual attitude toward violence (John and Sherlock laugh at inappropriate things, and the inhabitants of London Below don't particularly care when other people die).

This story is COMPLETE, at 4 very long chapters. I'll post the next one next week.

Uh, pairing-wise, this is pretty ambiguous. You can't doubt that John and Sherlock love and need each other, but they could be super close friends/family-by-choice or together. At one point they fall asleep in the same bed because they're just too exhausted to even think about it, and they do a lot of worrying about each other. So, read it how you like!

Disclaimer: These are sort of going out of style, aren't they? BUT I'M AN OLD-TIMER, so I'm doing one! None of these characters belong to me. London Below is Neil Gaiman's, and modern-day-TV-Sherlock belongs to the BBC.

* * *

><p>BELOW<p>

* * *

><p>It started, as these things do, with a case.<p>

"It isn't right, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Worth kept whispering, over and over. She wrung her hands together. "I—I think I've been drugged, or I'm going mad, or something—"

"We'll find your husband," John had assured her, knowing by the gleam in Sherlock's eye that they would take this case. "Don't worry."

Mr. Worth had been a husband of thirty years and the father of one child, who was grown now, and had apparently moved to Australia. The strange thing about this case, however, was that Mrs. Worth, distraught, had found that she could not remember her husband's first name, much less what he looked like. Her son, in Australia, seemed utterly unconcerned.

What made Sherlock take the case, in the end, was a photograph of the missing husband, for some reason. John had thought the photo unremarkable, just a bloke and his wife, but Sherlock had taken one look and he'd grinned, and John had known.

"So?" John asked after he closed the door on their new client, apparently.

"So!" Sherlock leaped to his feet. "I'm going to catch him this time!"

"Er, who?" John asked. He lifted his own coat off the hook as soon as Sherlock whirled toward the door to get his.

"Whoever this is! I've seen this before, John, only it is usually among the homeless."

"You've seen it before?" This was intriguing. A case Sherlock had been unable to solve in the past? It happened, but rarely.

"Yes." He clattered down the stairs, John hard on his heels. Mrs. Worth had already made it out the door, but Sherlock pulled John along in the opposite direction once they got out onto the street. "Sometimes they turn up again, sometimes they don't. Frequently the missing family member is homeless and then stays that way even after I've found them, for reasons I can't discern."

John frowned. "Everyone has their reasons for leaving home, Sherlock."

"Yes, but they are consistently nonsensical and difficult to remember for their inanity."

"Sherlock," John scolded. No reason was inane if it led to homelessness.

"You'll see," Sherlock continued doggedly. "We'll find him within the hour, I guarantee it, but she won't care. She won't even notice. And then you'll forget, as soon as we're done, and then_ I_ will forget the details, even if I want to remember them, even if I place them somewhere perfectly obvious. I've seen it before; it's _maddening._"

"Sherlock, that's absurd," John protested.

"No, it's not," he insisted. "You'll see."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Worth?" John asked the next day, looking at a note he'd left himself by his computer. "Did we have a client by the name of Worth?"

Sherlock made a furious noise from where he was sprawled on the couch. He threw the Union Jack pillow at John. "We did!" he said angrily. "See? Didn't I tell you that you would forget?"

John blinked at him. "Forget what?"

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

It took John a day to notice that the flat was quiet.

Well, not quite. Quiet was the wrong word, really. There were cars rattling down on the street below, trash disposal and various things. People yelled on the pavement, loud and angry. It was really rather noisy, all things considered, but it was also, somehow, quiet.

It took him another day to think, _too quiet? _He spent nearly an hour looking for his laptop, that afternoon. Somehow it had ended up wedged under the cushions of the couch. He swore as he hunted for it, and someone was yelling, yelling, yelling in a constant din that gave him the worst headache. Someone next door must have left a radio on as well, for that night angry violin music turned his dreams strange and frightening.

It took another day to wonder why he felt so lonely. Where had his flatmate gone? He'd—he'd had a flatmate, hadn't he? Yes, yes of course he had, why else would there be a spleen in the microwave? Obviously the flatmate had put it there, he thought triumphantly as he binned it.

Someone shouted about that, later, but John couldn't quite recall who.

The next day, he made tea in the kettle and poured two cups of it. He drank one and cooked his breakfast while working on the second one. His flatmate made a dismayed noise at one point, and said something about it, sort of plaintively. The place was awfully quiet, and he felt like he was _missing _something, so he called Sarah to ask if there was any work available at the surgery.

Someone kept talking at him while he was on the phone. It was really quite distracting. Had he left the telly on too loud? No, it was off. Though the racket, John heard Sarah say that they were not short staffed that day, but they were on the weekend, if he'd like to come in then, and John had readily agreed.

When he hung up, he wondered how he'd been filling his days. Locum work was sporadic at best. Had he really watched _that_ much crap telly? Restless, he reached for his wallet and keys and headed out. Someone kept on calling his name. They were almost out of milk.

Hang on.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs. No. _He _was almost out of milk, what was this they business? Was he starting to include the skull? He'd been living on his own too long, it seemed. He should put an ad in the paper for a flatmate.

No. No, that wasn't right either. The skull didn't belong to John, did it? Why would he have a skull? He had a flatmate, didn't he? The flatmate owned the skull. Yes, there was a noise behind him, a clatter and quite a lot of shouting. It sounded rather panicky, actually. He made to take a step down the hall to the front door.

Something felt wrong. His knee wobbled. John frowned at it, testing it by leaning on it. Odd. He took another step.

The leg gave out on him entirely, and he yelped as he fell to the ground. "What—?" he hissed furiously. His leg hadn't given him trouble since—since—

—since after he moved from his old bedsit to Baker Street. It was psychosomatic. He'd worked through it with Ella. It had been years. Why was it giving out on him now?

And worse than before at that! He staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on the bannister of the stairs.

No. Not the bannister. Those were hands gripping his elbow, long and thin and warm. John looked into pale eyes that were wide and frightened. "John?"

John blinked. Something inside him cracked as he stared into those eyes. Another crack, and a shudder. "John, _please_," begged his flatmate, who had a name and who _existed, _damn it, who loved John in a way that was almost frightening for all that it was usually impossible to see—

Another crack, and another, and like a thawing waterfall it all suddenly rushed back. John's wobbly knee firmed and he turned fully, gripped that wrist and gasped. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock made a choked noise. "Don't—don't do that again," he blurted. He was shaking. "I don't know what I did, but I'm _sorry, _so sorry, won't do it again, just tell me what it is and call everyone else off! I can't stand this, John, _please _make it stop!"

"Sherlock, what?" John asked. He took Sherlock's other wrist with his hand. His flatmate's pulse was positively hammering. He looked near tears.

"I don't know how you got Mycroft in on it," he continued, frantic, "But that's the only explanation. Unless he engineered it? That's the only way to explain the cabbies, but not you, John, you would never do something this cruel and Lestrade is a stretch but maybe Mycroft blackmailed him—"

John squeezed his wrists to halt the frenzied flow of words. "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Sherlock jerked away. "This! All of this! Stop it, you must stop!"

"Alright, easy," John said. "Sherlock, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about." But he did. There was something— "Hold on," he mumbled. "Where have you been for the past four days?"

"Right here!" It was almost a wail. "I've been shouting at you! I've been _right here! _You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft—even the cabbies won't stop for me, even the _people on the street _are part of this sadistic game. I would expect it of Anderson and Donovan, but not you, John. You must tell Mycroft to stop or I shall—I shall do something we will all regret."

John stared at him. "It was like," he said slowly, "I knew you were there but I couldn't see you. I—I heard you shouting and it just, just didn't matter." He put his hand on his head. "Christ, what is _wrong_ with me?"

"Don't be absurd John," Sherlock snapped. "Stop playing this game, you must _end it_—"

"This has to do with the Worth case, doesn't it?" John said thoughtfully.

Sherlock blinked at him. "Worth? That was _days _ago."

John stared at him. "And I couldn't remember it," he murmured. "We found him though, didn't we?"

"Ravenscourt station," Sherlock scowled. "He said his cat died and he couldn't bear it. His _cat._"

"That's… pretty inane actually," John said. "No wonder I forgot."

"Not inane. It's _moronic_! Even you could see that. And anyway, you would have written it up. Man lives on the street because of a dead cat, John? It's absurd. You would have put it on your blog!"

"I would have, wouldn't I?" John asked. "Why did I forget then?"

"You _actually_ forgot?" Sherlock demanded. "It wasn't a cruel game?"

"No!" John grabbed his wrists again and squeezed. "No, Sherlock. I wouldn't play a game like that on you. It really was like I couldn't see you. I…I forgot you like I forgot Worth. How could I have forgotten you? _You?_"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, though he seemed to relax, "I'm rather memorable."

John barked a laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, you are. Listen, I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson about it, alright? You said she couldn't see you either?"

"She could see me," Sherlock said. He stayed close after John let go of his wrists, hovering as if worried John would start ignoring him again. "Just like you could see me. She just ignored me."

"That's not like her," John murmured.

"It's not like any of you!" Sherlock bit. "It's childish and cruel!"

"And not intentional. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I don't know what happened."

"Maybe Mycroft drugged you," Sherlock muttered rebelliously. He still stood close to John's side as he knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.

"Mrs. Hudson?" called John. There was movement inside the flat, but she did not come to the door. Sherlock started fidgeting next to him. "Mrs. Hudson?" Now John was worried. Was something wrong? "Hang on," John told Sherlock after a few long moments of waiting for her to open the door. "I think we have a spare key upstairs."

Sherlock sighed, dug into his pocket, and handed it to John. He blinked. "Er?"

"I did try to speak with her too, you know," Sherlock said dryly. "I tried this very thing."

"Well, she hasn't been ignoring me," John growled, and put the key in the lock. "Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, opening the door.

She was walking back to her chair in the front room. There was something silly on the television, and as John watched she sat back into her chair, a cup of tea in her hand. "Mrs. Hudson?" John asked again, but there was no response. A creeping, uncomfortable feeling of something utterly _wrong _with the situation made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Sherlock stood so close that their shoulders were touching.

"See?" he said, and then bellowed sharply, "Mrs. Hudson!" in a tone he would never take with their landlady. John opened his mouth to scold him, but paused when he realized Mrs. Hudson did not react. She didn't even flinch. The creeping wrong feeling trailed down his spine like fingers.

John frowned. He walked into the room and then stood between Mrs. Hudson and the television. Sherlock slipped through the doorway and then hovered there, just inside, watching John with huge eyes. "Mrs. Hudson?" John asked yet again.

Their landlady did nothing but lean slightly to one side to see the television, and turn up the volume.

"No, hang on." John knelt in front of her, put his hands on her knees and tried to catch her eye. "It's like she can't see me at all," he said, perplexed. He looked back to Sherlock, who had drifted closer to the chair.

"I thought I was going mad," Sherlock confided, quietly. He looked very unnerved.

John reached forward and gently shook her shoulders. "Mrs. Hudson!" he tried again. She flinched back, and for a second he thought he'd got a reaction out of her. But all she did was look down at her tea, which John had inadvertently sloshed when he shook her.

"Oh dear," she sighed. "These wretched old hands." She got up, neatly avoiding tripping over John, and went to the kitchen to get something to mop up the spill. John watched her go, nearly gaping.

"It's no use, John," Sherlock said. He swallowed nervously when John didn't say anything. "You can still see me." It was more of a request for reassurance than anything else.

"Of course I can," John replied immediately. Some of the tension left Sherlock's shoulders. "And you can still see me."

"Yes," Sherlock affirmed, and he didn't even comment on how obvious that was. "And the maddening thing is that she can see you too!" he added. "She steps around you, not on you. She moved when you shook her; she _felt_ the shake." They watched Mrs. Hudson wander back to her chair with a napkin.

Sherlock deliberately got in her way, but she walked around him as if he were a piece of furniture. He shot John a helpless look.

"And I was doing this too," John murmured thoughtfully, standing. "No wonder you thought you were going mad."

Sherlock gravitated toward John, standing just a little too close. He was definitely unnerved. "It was the same with Lestrade," he said. "Donovan, Anderson. I would address people on the street, and they would merely walk around me. I even went to Mycroft's office—I _walked_, because the cabbies wouldn't stop for me, and—"

"You didn't take the tube?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I— it's foolish," he said.

John pursed his lip. "Sherlock. _This_ is foolish." He waved a hand at Mrs. Hudson, happily watching telly and ignoring them, her mess cleaned.

"Worth," he slowly. "The other day, before this nonsense. He was under the impression that there was a beast in the gap."

"The—gap?" John blinked at him, not sure what he was talking about.

"Between the train and the platform, John," Sherlock explained irritably. "It was nonsense, of course, but—" he hesitated before plowing on, "These disappearance cases. I've seen them—the people don't come back. Sometimes I find them. And they're frightened of the strangest things. I've heard about the beast in the gap before. I've always thought it was preposterous, but _this_ is preposterous, and—" his voice trailed.

"Better safe than sorry?" John finished with a wry smile. "That's not like you."

"Things were bad enough," Sherlock gritted. "And anyway, I wanted to see if I could get _anyone_ on the street to notice me."

"None of them did."

Sherlock shook his head. "Nor Mycroft. So I—I came home."

"To shout at me," John smiled warmly.

"To shout at you," Sherlock confirmed with a faint smile, but it faded. "Though it seems I've condemned you to the same—whatever this is," he added, frustrated and guilty.

John squeezed his arm. "I'm glad you did," he said sincerely. "The flat was awfully quiet, when I didn't notice you."

"I was yelling at you almost constantly," Sherlock muttered. "It's not my fault you're entirely unobservant."

"Still quiet." John grinned. "C'mon. Let me get my gun, and we'll see about this gap monster. And Worth. Maybe he'll be able to see us."

Sherlock spared one more look over his shoulder at Mrs. Hudson. John tugged him along. "Come on."

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, and followed John back up to their flat.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

John…. had a hunch.

John didn't often have hunches, because Sherlock discouraged them. He always wanted evidence, facts, and gut feelings were not something he approved of, generally. But John did have a sense of danger that Sherlock trusted, and his danger senses were, as they say, tingling.

Sherlock frowned at him when John came down the stairs from his room, holding a half-filled knapsack.

"I was thinking about getting myself a flatmate this morning," John told him. Sherlock made a choked sound. "Mrs. Hudson will want tenants." John squeezed Sherlock's arm as he walked by, buckling a holster to his waist.

Sherlock blinked at that. "She—" he started indignantly, but interrupted himself, frown deepening. "That would be a sensible deduction, John." He sounded surprised, which was a little insulting, actually.

"Anyway, I'm packing," John continued, scowling. Sherlock scoffed at his obvious statement, but John kept talking. "An extra jumper for me and you, no complaining. Socks." Sherlock made a face, since John had inevitably interrupted his index. "Ammunition," John continued, heedless, "Two bottles for water. First aid. Pocket knife. Er, we don't have many nonperishables that would be convenient for backpacking."

"Tesco's," Sherlock said. He was eyeing his violin. "Protein bars, if you must. And we're hardly backpacking John; it's _London_."

"Yes, I must. I have a bad feeling about this," John said, and Sherlock huffed derisively. He did, however, pack up his violin. "Sherlock—" John started.

"Oh, hush. I have a few bolt holes scattered across the city," he said. "They're stocked with supplies, too, and they're abandoned. They've always been abandoned. I'm not taking this with me; I'm hiding it. There's a compartment in of one of the buildings along the way. If Mrs. Hudson may rent the place as you say, I would rather this not leave my possession." He shoved his magnifying glass, a box of nitrile gloves and one of evidence bags into John's pack. John didn't comment. "Everything else can be replaced."

"Are there places to sleep in these bolt holes of yours?" John asked. "The kit has a space blanket, but—"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "It's fine." It was early spring yet, still chilly enough for coats, but warming. They'd have this thing solved long before winter, John thought.

They left 221B rather reluctantly. Mrs. Hudson had seemed engrossed in her program, so maybe if they solved this matter quickly, she wouldn't have long enough to acquire new tenants. Somehow, though, John thought this was unlikely to be that quickly solved.

They made their way to the Baker Street Underground station. Sherlock had been right: there was a building with a bolt hole along the way. He pulled up one of the floorboards right in front of at least three tenants, though no one saw him. In went the violin, and he sighed reluctantly as he packed it away. "There," he mumbled, turning back to John. "To the station, then."

John rather liked the Baker Street station, despite its absurd crowds. It was conveniently close to home and it was a relief after a long day at the surgery, or running about the city. The place was filthy, dingy and old, tiled brown and white in some places and boasting a wooden platform in others and confusing as all get out.

According to Sherlock, it was not only the oldest, but also had the most underground platforms of any station in its network. Circle line, which they wanted, was even down a long curving corridor that was bloody impossible to find, if you didn't know where it was. Tourists, visiting either because the place was historic or because they were on their way to Madam Tussauds, got lost constantly and John had given more directions there to perplexed people with maps than he could count. He felt safe in that station—not that he was particularly anxious about underground stations, but more that it meant the end of traveling. It was confusing and he understood it. He knew his way around because it was home; it was _his_.

There were people coming and going when they arrived there, of course, and Sherlock scowled in irritation and shoved his way through toward the escalators. John followed him doggedly, and he even apologized politely to the huge group of American tourists. This was despite the fact that they were loitering around the entrance, which was the worst thing anyone could do at a busy underground stop and John _hated that, _and the fact that they couldn't even really see him anyway.

Sherlock had stopped short at the head of the escalator. Not really paying attention, John almost slammed into his back. "Sherlock?" John peered around his shoulder. "Oh," he murmured.

He could see now why Sherlock had walked to Mycroft's office, never mind that it was on the other side of the city. The image before him hurt his eyes. He blinked, blinked again. Shook his head. It stayed the same.

The tourists going into and coming out of the station were placidly riding the escalator. They were talking and laughing, and rising up out of the station unharmed. The thing was, John knew they were riding an escalator. He knew it because he rode that escalator very frequently, and there they were, going up and down without a care in the world.

Except it wasn't an escalator. Not really. Superimposed on the image he knew so well it was almost second nature, was something different. It was like waking up and finding a dog's paw where a hand should be. There were stairs.

They seemed to be made of iron, thin and rusting and terribly unsafe. The railing on either side was crumbling away into decay, and, though John knew down to his bones that the station was well lit, the stairs descended into darkness, and a musty, coal-like smell fogged up from below. "That's—" John said.

"Wrong, it's _wrong,_" snarled Sherlock, as if the stairs were a personal insult.

He was frightened.

The great Sherlock Holmes, who ran down murderers and laughed gleefully at John's side, was frightened. He was scared like he'd been in Baskerville, scared and furious about it.

Well, John reasoned, he could hardly blame him. Not only had Sherlock spent four days being ignored by absolutely everyone for no discernable reason, but then this happened. It was entirely illogical. Poor Sherlock. He was kind of having a bad week.

John snorted.

"_What?_" spat Sherlock.

"Nah," John grinned, "S'just. Disappearing escalator. It's _mad_."

Sherlock looked at him, then at the not-escalator. John followed his eyes. It still wasn't an escalator. The giggles slipped out. He heard Sherlock chuckle next to him. "Definitely madder than usual," he offered, and John erupted into full on laughter.

"Come on," Sherlock urged him, smiling now. He edged his way toward the stairs.

"They don't look very sound," John murmured.

"The tourists aren't falling through," Sherlock said reasonably. "Besides, you and I have used this very station hundreds of time. We've ridden those escalators."

John shifted uncertainty. "Yeah, but I'm getting the feeling that those rules don't apply to us anymore."

"Don't be preposterous, John," Sherlock snapped. He stepped onto the stairs, where the down escalator should be. Nothing happened, and he raised an eyebrow to John, who joined him.

It was very dark down there, John thought as they descended, and though the tourists were moving cheerfully as if on escalators, the stairs were quite stationary. "Impossible," Sherlock kept muttering in irritation, and John rather agreed. It was frankly giving him a headache, and he was just looking down for were to put his foot next when something gave a very alarming _creeeek._

Sherlock froze.

Then there was a very loud _snap! _The stair John had been standing on suddenly bucked under his feet. Sherlock whirled to catch him, but then the whole thing groaned, swayed, and they both scrabbled to stand upright, get to the next step down, _something, _but the staircase crumbled away.

Down they fell, into the darkness.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"_Sherlock Holmes!" _crowed a woman's voice, creaky and old, right out of a horror movie. "Oh, I've been _waiting _for you."

John groaned.

He was—hot. Uncomfortably so, enough to feel more than a little queasy. His head was killing him, and he could feel Sherlock's back snugged up against his own. Their hands were bound behind them. Lightly, he tapped Sherlock's wrist. Three dashes, dash dot dash. OK? Sherlock tapped back, the same pattern. He was fine.

John let out another breath. God, it was really, really hot. And sort of yeasty, which would be nice if he weren't tied up and boiling. It smelt bready, spices and cooked meat. Almost like Angelo's kitchen, those few times John had been back there, though that kitchen was never so hot. When he peeked open his eyes, just a little, he saw that he was facing a row of fire, blue-bottomed like a gas element on a stovetop. It curved like a gas element, too, surrounding them. Some feet behind the flames, there was a stone wall. The fire was warming the place unbearably.

"I kept on saying, I _said_ you'd slip through," the old woman was continuing with ragged excitement. John couldn't see her—she was on the other side, facing Sherlock, presumably, and out of his line of sight. "Spent so much time on the edges of things, you did. Had my eye on you for years. Not enough meat on your bones, of course, but your heart should be _delicious._ And you brought a friend!"

Hold on. Sherlock's _heart_? Like hell! John clenched his knuckles, pulling lightly, testing the restraints. They were twine, the sort you'd tie a chicken with. He frowned, took a breath. His gun was still in his holster. Who in their right mind tied a man up but left him his gun?

"It seems you have me at a disadvantage," Sherlock said, low and calm. He was tapping John's wrist lightly, but it wasn't Morse. John settled, and got a swipe of a thumb as a reward.

The woman cackled. "Oh, listen to you! _A disadvantage. _Well of course you're at a disadvantage, sweetheart. I'm going to eat you."

John stiffened. Sherlock tapped his wrist again. He relaxed. Sherlock clearly had a plan. "Then perhaps I would like to know the name of my killer," he said evenly.

The woman laughed and laughed. "So you can leave behind a _clue_? Ha!"

John watched from under his lashes, still pretending to be unconscious. The old lady was walking around them, now, he could hear it as her voice and footsteps got nearer. Sherlock was tapping his wrists, _stay put, _so John stayed, but he watched her when she came into his field of vision.

He sucked in a breath when he saw her, which gave the game away entirely. It had been a reflex, though, not intentional. She was _wrong, _wrong like the staircase going down to the Baker Street station. She wasn't proportional somehow, but it wasn't… it wasn't medical. John was a doctor; he didn't flinch at bodies. Skin ailments, bone structure, genetic quirks affecting size and shape – he'd seen his fair amount, one time or another. People were people and that was the end of it.

She wasn't people. He knew it to his marrow. He couldn't quite put his finger how he knew it, but he did. Her eyes seemed to glow, and her arms hung just a little too low, her teeth just a little too sharp. Her dress, long and Victorian and utterly incongruous, was tattered and filthy. It had, perhaps, once been blue. Now it was gray, stained and blotched in places, the ends of the skirt trailing in disgusting black rags. She paced along the edges, the ring of fire between her and John. "Leave all the clues you want. You're in the Underground, dear," she crooned, and her strange eyes locked with John's. "No one cares whether you live or die."

"_The Underground,_" John heard Sherlock whisper to himself. His thumb swiped John's hand again. _Easy. _"You still have yet to tell me your name," he added. She grinned her sharp teeth, staring right into John's eyes.

"Oh, your friend's going to be tasty too," she cooed. "So much _conviction_, such loyalty. He'll make an excellent pie."

_Wait, what? I'm going to be in a pie?_

An absurd notion struck John. "Baker Street Tube station," he said slowly. Hysteria boiled in his gut. It was so _bloody _hot here.

"You're a baker," Sherlock said, and now he sounded amused.

"_The _Baker, dear," cooed the old woman. "You can call me Bonny."

"Short for 'Marylebone,' no doubt," Sherlock murmured, and John choked on a giggle. Oh, god this was mad, it was _completely mad!_

"They said you were clever," the old woman hissed. "Your brain will make a lovely cake."

John burst out laughing. "_Brain _cake?" he demanded, "_Seriously?_"

"I beg your pardon?" Bonny the Baker of Baker Street had just become the most absurd thing John had _ever seen, _and he'd been running with Sherlock Holmes for years, so that was saying something. John cackled.

"Happy birthday!" John gasped, giggling, "Have some brains! You're _mental_!"

Sherlock laughed with him, and John really hoped this wasn't Sherlock's plan, because laughing at crazy people who wanted to eat them was a _horrible plan_, but he just couldn't seem to stop.

"Sherlock scones?" John gasped.

"Whole Wheat Watson?" Sherlock shot back, and John howled.

The woman gave a furious snarl. "You shan't be laughing from my dinner plate!" she spat. John only laughed harder, because that was weak.

She screeched then, lifted a knife and flung herself through the flames. John's laughter died, but he was ready for the attack. He kicked out at her shins and she lost her balance, stumbling so her petticoats swished back through the fire. The knife slashed down, carving a line from beneath his ear down to his collarbone, but John didn't care. He kicked again, but she leaped back with a furious bellow, more agile than any old lady ought to be. She went to strike again but Sherlock, still tied to John, lunged to one side. Her knife point scraped against the ground. She rose to stand again, but then gasped.

"Fire," Sherlock snarled, and John thought for one absurd moment Sherlock meant his gun, which was doable but would require some wriggling to get, but the old lady screamed, drawing his attention.

The tatters of her dress had caught when she raced through the ring of fire in fury. They caught quite quickly, actually, and her dress was going up like tissue paper. She shrieked and twisted, flailing and howling. John gaped. He hadn't expected that at all.

"John, the knife," Sherlock hissed.

"Right," John mumbled, and squirmed and squirmed and managed to get it with a foot, dragged it closer to them, inched forward. Sherlock wriggled to grasp it, and then cut their bonds.

"Come on," he said, and pulled John quickly toward the ring of fire. It was so hot in the ring, but John looked back at the screaming, writhing mas that had once been a murderous old lady. It was not that he felt bad—she'd wanted to eat Sherlock's heart— but it was still a gruesome death. "Quickly," Sherlock added, and pulled at John's sleeve.

John watched him leap nimbly over the flames and then mimicked the motion.

For a moment the heat was unbearable, but then he reached the other side.

Cool air rushed against John's face and he gasped in relief. It had been hot in the ring, but he hadn't quite realized how hot. Sherlock was standing before him, and he whirled, hands on John's shoulders.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "She cut you." The second was a growl, and he glared over John's shoulder at the screaming mass of something in the fire circle. John looked up at him and smiled wryly.

"Never mind me," he said, "Are _you _alright? You're flushed." Carefully, he touched his friend's cheek, which was radiating heat. He wasn't burned – they hadn't been in there for long enough, and even the leap through the fire had been very fast – but he was certainly warm, maybe a little too warm. John could feel the heat rolling off his own body in waves. It was glorious.

Sherlock scowled. "So are you," he said darkly and nodded over John's shoulder. "It was a cooker. The fire. The heat stays inside. Why? Why does the heat stay inside?"

John gaped at the ring of fire. The old lady was nearly cinders by now, and quite dead. "How did you know she would burn, Sherlock?"

"Her dress," he replied absently. "The ends were soaked and tattered from what must be exhaust and leaking oil from the train above us, in the station. The fabric was thin and worn and stained from chemicals, of which I imagined some must be flammable, and if not, the fabric certainly was, as was the oil on the ends. It was hot in the oven, hotter than we knew because the temperature was rising slowly—"

"So she'd catch fire better," John finished. "She was going to roast us like boiling a frog," he added, horrified.

Sherlock nodded shortly. "I didn't expect her to go up that quickly; I just imagined she'd drop her knife, which we could use."

"Oh god," John managed. "She wanted to _eat_ us."

"And make cakes from my brain, apparently," Sherlock said. John choked on a snigger, and then Sherlock giggled breathlessly, and they were off again, laughing so hard they couldn't breathe.

"Oh god, oh god _Christ_ that was mad," John gasped as he recovered himself. "Absolutely mad!"

Sherlock huffed then, and his giggles turned to a strange smile. "Sherlock?" John asked after a moment.

His smile twisted oddly at John, as though unsure whether he was pleased or alarmed. "She could see us, though," Sherlock said lowly. John stared at him, amusement abruptly gone. "_Why _could she see us?"

"You're right. I don't know."

"We're in the Underground, she said," he murmured. "That she was waiting for me to slip through. Slip through what?"

"Of course we're in the Underground," John said, "We're below the Baker Street Station."

Sherlock shook his head and started to pace. "No, no, she didn't mean the tube. She spoke like we'd somehow fallen into the Underground, as if it were a, a hole or a well—a separate _place_. That she'd been waiting, that I liked the edges of things. Edges of things, what did she mean by edges? Edges, edges, falling off edges—?"

"Edges," John murmured, a little uncomfortable with the idea of Sherlock on an edge again. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?" He didn't halt his pacing.

"You told me once that the homeless live on the edges of society," John said slowly.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "The HOMELESS!" he cried. "Of course! It all goes back to Worth! John, you're brilliant!"

John blinked at him. "I am?"

"Yes! The homeless that don't come back. Some are memorable, some are not. Worth is not memorable."

"We're not memorable," John said, thoughtfully. He could see there was a connection, though he wasn't quite sure yet what that connection might be.

"She wasn't either," Sherlock insisted, talking faster. He waved an arm at the dead woman. "Don't you see? You and I communicate, but we cannot communicate with anyone—memorable. She never could have got away with slaughtering people and eating their hearts, not in the real world—she had _clearly_ done it many times—her dress, the state of her _shoes! _Just look at this place—without at least _me_ noticing. But if she wasn't memorable, I never would have noticed before."

"That's brilliant," John said. "So you think there are—are two kinds of people, in London. Memorable and not memorable, and the two can't communicate with each other."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Must be. Otherwise I, at least, would have noticed something like _that," _he waved at the still cheerfully burning ring of fire, "happening beneath the Baker Street Station. Right under my nose!" The last was indignant.

"She would have fed on the homeless—people not memorable," he continued. "People on the edges of things, people between the two worlds." He paced. "Enough connection to the homeless and I _slipped—_" he made a strange motion with his hand, apparently illustrating slipping. "From memory. And you." Now he turned to John, guiltily. "I pulled you down with me. John—"

"No place else I'd rather be," John told him firmly. "So you stop that right now."

Sherlock looked at him sadly for a moment before shaking his head. "We should find that bag you packed," he said. "Bonny the Baker," he scoffed over the name, "will have kept it. You should put some antiseptic on that cut."

"I should have some water. We should both drink something," John sighed. "If we get back, er, topside, I can get us some more—we don't have much."

Sherlock waved him off. "It isn't life threatening," he scoffed.

"Sherlock, we were almost cooked. We're both overheated," John scolded, and then looked around. "Where do you think she'd have put our things?"

"Mm." Sherlock walked a little to the left, giving the still burning fire a wide berth. John followed him.

The wall John had been facing was quite barren, but on the other side of the fire there was a grimy, dilapidated mattress, surrounded by piles and piles of filth. It was stained in places, covered in crumbs. Bonny the Baker liked to eat in bed, and wasn't that a horrifying thought. At its foot was John's bag, pulled open. The first aid kit was strewn about amongst the filth in piles, as were the protein bars. Both jumpers had made it to the grimy mattress, and the water bottles had been flung away. The socks had made it to her bed too, though the ammunition had stayed at the bottom of the bag. Sherlock made an annoyed sound when it became apparent that she'd opened his box of nitrile gloves, but at least his magnifier wasn't cracked.

They repacked everything, though Sherlock exclaimed in disgust at the jumpers and socks that had been in that woman's bed. Still, John knew from experience that you didn't throw away your extra socks while on the road, so long as they were still usable. And the jumpers were important, too. After inspection, neither had bugs or mites or anything, so back into the bag they went.

"Here," Sherlock said as he recollected the first aid kit. Much of it was luckily packed in sterile baggies, so it was still useful, despite being piled with the various scrap against the wall by the bed. He pulled out a packet of antiseptic wipes and one of the nitrile gloves that hadn't been strewn about the floor.

"Sherlock, I'm fine," John protested weakly, but Sherlock wouldn't hear it

"We're underground," Sherlock insisted. "It's filthy here." He was right, of course, so John submitted. He pulled out one of the cold compresses, though, and cracked it, applying it as best he could to Sherlock's overwarm face while he cleaned the wound and bandaged John up. The wound wasn't deep, and didn't need stitches.

He huffed and scowled and protested as John saw to his flushed face, but John was having none of it. Sherlock retaliated by reaching for the other cold compress, but John caught his hand.

"Probably a bad idea," John said. "We should save it." He cracked open one of their water bottles and took a sip. It was cool, and felt wonderful. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. The following wave of nausea let him know how overheated he was, but he made himself drink more.

"Then give me that one," Sherlock snapped.

It took a fairly long time, with only one compress. They were both overheated, but no burns and nothing too bad. They'd been lucky.

"Now what?" John asked. Sherlock was holding the compress to John's wrists, bruised from the twine and over warmed from the cooker. The cold dispelled the nausea. He'd sipped at the water when John had insisted, but put it aside.

"We find Worth," Sherlock said. "We need more data."

John nodded. "How do we get out of here?" he asked, looking around.

Sherlock gave him a dry look. He gestured.

The great room with the oven was circular. Gray bricks made up the walls, and they went darker black with grime and soot near the oven, and near the bed. The bricks went straight up, as though they were sitting at the bottom of a well. But there was a door to one side, with dingy, gray peeling paint.

"Oh," John said. "You think that actually goes somewhere? I, er, didn't bring a torch," he added, feeling silly. Of course they would need torches. How could he have possibly overlooked that? Stupid. Had they been packing for wilderness, John would have brought one. He had overlooked it in the face of being in London, and having a little penlight on his keys, which was useful for finding a keyhole or something small, but not walking in darkness for god knew how long. Stupid! What else could he have forgotten?

Berating himself, John went to open the door. It groaned in protest. On the other side, as he had predicted, was darkness.

Sherlock strolled up to John's side. In his hand, he was holding two iron and glass lanterns. The candles inside were lit and burning cheerfully.

They looked old and impossibly beaten up. A square box with a hinged door, the lanterns had one iron side and two iron corners, and all were rusting terribly. The other three sides were made of fogged and sooty glass. The handles on both were rough circles of iron sprouting from bottom of the iron side of the ungainly thing, and then twining around a strange, chimney-shaped structure on the top, likely used to keep the fire on the candle inside oxygenated.

"What," John said, "The hell."

"I have a penlight, but that won't do much. We don't have real torches. Here." Sherlock deposited a box of matches and six more candles into John's knapsack. "Shall we?"

John took the other lantern. "Yeah, sure. I'd say it can't get any madder than that," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the Baker, "but I imagine it's about to, isn't it?"

Sherlock grinned at him and led the way.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

The tunnel did not seem to end. It was made of brick, like a sewage system, sloping in a round curve up and over their heads. Sherlock had to duck a little, but John was fine. It wasn't filthy or stinking, though, so it wasn't quite a sewer. Their lanterns lit a feeble circle of light, which constantly bounced and swayed with their footsteps. Somewhere, something was dripping.

Suddenly the light and shadows swayed more. John blinked as Sherlock ducked to one side, crouching at the foot of the wall and pulling out his magnifier.

"Anything interesting?" John asked.

"Mmm," said Sherlock. "It seems that the Baker wasn't the only one to use these corridors."

"Oh?" John asked. He looked off into the dark distance, tensing. "You think she had an accomplice?"

"No. Rats." Sherlock frowned.

"_Rats?_" John asked.

"Big ones. Skittering on the ground. Look here—and here. Dropping breadcrumbs. Stealing. Odd."

John gave a nervous laugh. "That's what rats do, right? Steal food."

"No," Sherlock murmured, "No. These tracks go two and from the Baker. She was eating humans, John, and there were bones of pigeons and cats and dogs amongst her filth. Yet these rats came and went. They came and went with _food, _which means they went through the door and inside her—room." He made a disdainful noise. "Why didn't she eat the rats, John?"

"Because rats are filthy?" John asked dubiously.

"No," Sherlock murmured. "Pigeons are filthy. Stray cats and dogs—most people have an aversion to eating them. They're pets. People don't _eat_ pets."

"People don't eat people, either," John pointed out wryly.

"Yes, and she broke these taboos, but not a rat. Why?"

"Diseases?" John asked, but Sherlock waved him off.

"She'd be at risk for diseases by eating strays, do keep up. And humans, too. Living underground, not picky about what she eats—_except rats._"

"I dunno, Sherlock," John shrugged. He crouched down beside his friend to see the footprints. There were scuff marks by the walls, and indeed breadcrumbs.

"Squeak."

Both John and Sherlock turned.

As if summoned by their words, a huge black rat stood on its hind legs and stared at them. It wasn't the size of a cat, but it was a near thing. The crooked whiskers twitched, and its eyes shined in the light of their lanterns. John opened his mouth to shoo it away, but Sherlock gripped his arm, and he stilled.

"Hello," said Sherlock, eyes narrowed. John turned to stare at him.

"Are you mad?"

"Hush, John," Sherlock hissed. "I'm afraid the Baker is dead," he informed it, cautiously. It jerked back, is if shocked, and released a string of squeals.

"_Oh,_" breathed Sherlock. A slow, triumphant grin was curling his lip. John had clearly missed something here. Sherlock added, "I'm terribly sorry. In our defense, she was trying to eat us. Here." He dug into John's knapsack. John yelped at him, but Sherlock held him steady and pulled out a protein bar. He opened it, and then offered it to the rat. "I hope that makes up for the trouble."

John stared. Sherlock had finally gone mad. "Sherlock, that's our food supply," he said.

"_Hush,_" Sherlock told him firmly. "Don't mind him," he smiled at the rat, shamming normal, "Bit dim." He held out the opened protein bar.

"Hey!"

The rat approached, and John tried not to cringe, but it didn't jump on them or anything. It pulled the protein bar out of its wrapper with its teeth and then put it on the ground, regarding it. It nibbled thoughtfully, turned to Sherlock and nodded_. _

It _nodded_. John reversed his attitude – it wasn't Sherlock who'd gone crazy. "_I've_ gone mad," he said to no one in particular. Sherlock squeezed his arm.

"I'm glad," he told the rat with a big smile. "We'd best be off."

"Squeak," said the rat. Protein bar in tow, it scampered off into the darkness.

"Sherlock," John said, "What just happened?"

"They're _sentient_," Sherlock breathed in wonder.

"_What? _The rats? Are you insane?"

"Yes. Yes of course they're sentient, John, didn't you see the way it asked us what we were doing here?" he continued with glee.

"Listen, I don't know where you heard that but—"

"No, no, no, stop being _thick_, John. The Baker didn't eat them, and it wasn't because of disease. Why? Why eat people and pigeons and cats but not rats? It squeaked at us when it saw us – a prey animal would slip past. So it wasn't frightened, and when I told it the Baker was dead – an experiment, you see – it reacted with _shock._"

"So... you apologized," John mumbled.

"They must have had some kind of arrangement, of _course_."

"You do realize that you've jumped from being invisible and the Baker of Baker Street to talking animals, right?"

"This whole experience is absurd, John, I have simply accepted it—you ought to do the same," Sherlock huffed. "Besides, it didn't talk."

"Rats doesn't talk, sir," said a small voice in the darkness. John leaped to his feet, Sherlock close behind.

There was a boy standing in the middle of the hall. He was very small and very grimy, and he was chewing on half the protein bar. His clothes were more hole than cloth, nearly rags hanging off one shoulder, and he had a cap on his head like something out of a Dickens novel. He could not have been more than eight, and perched on his bare shoulder, eating the other half of the protein bar, was the rat. "That's why they have Ratspeakers. Are you new?"

"I'm sorry—_Ratspeakers?_" John blurted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes! Yes we are new, thank you. Could you tell us where we are?"

"C'n do more'n that," said the boy. "Mr. Shorttail says you're gracious an' polite. He says we'll give you a safe place to bed down a night, since you was nice about the Baker and gave us a snack. S'a pity, though, cos she sold us all our pies," he murmured wistfully. "But," he added when the rat on his shoulder squeaked as if scolding him, "You can't be blamed, if she were goin' to eat you."

"Um," John pointed out, "There were people in the pies."

"Course. They were our people, mostly. Mr. Shorttail was goin' to trade me for a month's worth of cat pies, but, well, that din't work out, seein' as she's dead'n all." The boy shrugged, as if that didn't really mean much.

John opened his mouth. He closed his mouth. He looked helplessly at Sherlock, whose face had gone a little blank.

"Please tell Mr. Shorttail that he is gracious to offer, but if we could beg a different kindness, it may be more useful. Could you tell us where we are?" Sherlock looked utterly composed, as if calling a rat that was going to sacrifice a small boy to a monster _gracious_ was a perfectly normal activity. He squeezed John's arm again, and John kept quiet.

The boy licked his lips nervously. "Yes. But you shouldn't stay here long, sir. You're standin' near the entrance of the Underside line," the last was whispered, a little frightened.

"And what's the Underside line?" Sherlock asked, a little peevishly. John had never heard of such a thing.

"The only line that don't owe fealty to the Earl at Earl's Court," the boy explained, still hushed. John stifled a shocked laugh. An Earl? What? "It passes between the Undersides, sir, but if you get too close you have to ride it. Their fair is very steep." He swallowed and looked down. "Best avoid it if you can, sir."

"We were hoping to get to Ravenscourt," Sherlock told him.

"You got coin?" the boy said.

"Sorry?" John asked.

"Coin," the boy repeated. "Somethin' shiny for the Raven. He don't like visitors, 'nless they got somethin' shiny for him."

"This is completely mental," John said to no one in particular.

Sherlock made an irritated sound. "A raven at Ravenscourt," he muttered irascibly, as if the disregard to logic were a personal insult.

The boy scratched his nose. "You really are new. This is London Below. It's all like that, and everything wants to eat you. The rats take in newcomers, if you swear fealty. They look after us."

Sherlock's lips spread in a slow grin. "Is that right? I think we'll manage. Thank you for the information. Come along, John." He tugged John's arm again, pulling him past the boy.

"If you make it," the boy added, "The next Floating Market's in three days. It's in Berkley Square. Maybe I'll see you there."

"What's your name?" John asked him.

"Wiggins, sir. And you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said was they strode down the hall, "And he's John Watson. Goodbye."

The boy took off his hat and waved it. He watched them walk off like fools, their lights fading into the distance. Any idiot knew that these walls had corridors in them, and that to walk this particular tunnel in the open was as good as a death sentence.

"Too bad they're goin' to die," he told Mr. Shorttail. "They might've been awfully useful."

_It's few and far between that survives Below, _the rat replied kindly, _Best not to get attached. Come along, now, boy. We should get back to the nest._

_._

* * *

><p><em>.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

"We can't just leave him there!" John hissed as Sherlock dragged him off. "Ratspeaker or no, they were going to _feed him_ to that—"

"I think the rules are different here," Sherlock said, "Besides, the boy was much bigger than the rat. If he really opposed it, he could have run away."

"Sherlock," John growled.

"Look," Sherlock murmured.

"No, I won't be convinced on this," John continued.

"No, no, idiot, _look_," Sherlock gestured to the ground.

"Don't try to distract me, Sherlock," John hissed. "We should go back for him—"

"No, no. They're long gone, John—_look!_" Sherlock pointed to the ground. It was made of red brick, and dismal.

"What about it?" John asked doubtfully.

Sherlock made a long suffering noise. "It's damp, John."

"We're underground."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "An excellent observation."

"Well? Why do we care that it's wet?"

"I don't know." Sherlock pursed his lips together, fascinated. "It was dry back in the Baker's—hovel. And down the tunnel." He gestured behind him. "Now it's wet. Perhaps we're approaching the sewer?" He mumbled something about subterranean rivers.

John sighed. He looked back over his shoulder to the tunnel behind them; Sherlock was right, the boy and the rat were long gone. "Do we go back?"

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock started forward again, and John followed him.

The tunnel bent, twisted and went on and on. John had no idea where they were. They probably weren't under Baker Street any more, and even Sherlock was frowning a little. There was a rushing of water up ahead, and they walked towards it.

Sherlock made a delighted noise, suddenly, and veered off to one of the walls, holding up his lantern. "Oh," he breathed.

"What is it?" John asked, wandering to stand at his shoulder.

"Fungus," Sherlock said, "Bioluminescent." He held his lantern away, and indeed, John saw a weak greenish light smearing the wall. When he brought the lantern back, it was clear that the light came from the stem of a small brown mushroom with a triangular cap. "Of the _Mycena_ genus, it seems, though I do not recognize the species," he hummed. "Turn around, John; I want a sample."

"Of course you do," John sighed, but he turned around so Sherlock could access the knapsack, and the evidence bags in there for samples. He rummaged, pulled one out with a small triumphant sound.

Sherlock turned the bag inside out, and carefully plucked the mushroom with his fingers inside, before flipping the top over and then zipping it, satisfied, with the mushroom inside.

"Uh, different pocket, if you could," John said. "Don't want our things smelling of mushroom."

"No worse than the Baker's bed," Sherlock grumbled. "Besides, it's in a bag."

"And yet," John insisted. Sherlock huffed and did as John told him, putting the bagged mushroom in the smaller front pocket.

"Easier to find anyway," he said primly, but John only smirked at him.

"Yeah, sure."

Sherlock made a face, but it was mostly good natured. They continued down the tunnel.

The sounds of water got louder, and the glowing mushrooms more numerous. Sherlock inspected large clusters of them, and though he looked like he wanted to take more samples, he refrained. John was rather relieved, because the clusters of mushrooms started to get large enough that they might not fit in his knapsack, let alone an evidence bag. The clumps of mushrooms vanished abruptly, though, as though severed.

"Splash zone," Sherlock said, pointing it out. "At high tide, the waters fill up to here, look." He traced a line of black algae at the foot of the wall. "It only reaches farther in storms."

They followed the black algae, though John frowned nervously as they did. Apparently it was low tide, but that was not much of a comfort because high tide would come back around, soon enough, and judging from the algae marks, these tunnels flooded to the top.

The tunnel opened at last to a juncture. The arched ceiling of the tunnel gave way to an open ditch in the intersection, still brick, through which gray brown water flowed sluggishly. John looked up, where dribs and drabs of sunlight made their way through a grate far away, nearly invisible up at the surface. "Where _are_ we?"

Sherlock shook his head in frustration. "These tunnels make very little sense," he growled. "We twisted around three times, did you notice? By rights we should not have gone anywhere! Of course you didn't notice. I—well." He paused.

John grinned at him. "You have no idea, do you?"

"I have some idea. Likely the subterranean river Fleet, going by its stench, color and approximate location." He wrinkled his nose. "Still mostly sewer."

John blinked. "A subterranean river?" he asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

"There are several in London," he said. "That puts the Thames downriver, and possibly Hampstead Heath upriver, if I am correct. We should move quickly," he added with a frown, eyes on the filthy water.

John didn't fancy drowning in a subterranean river. "We wanted to get to Ravenscourt, didn't we?" he asked.

"Mm," Sherlock agreed. "We are very far off. Wrong direction entirely. No ladder to reach that grate – there's a tunnel opening up ahead." He pointed. John held up his lantern, squinting in the scarce light. Sure enough, across the murky river was another strangely beautiful, arched brick tunnel that faded into darkness.

"Do you know where it goes?"

Sherlock gave him a _you're-an-idiot_ look. John patted him arm. This whole thing was very illogical. Poor Sherlock. "Tunnel it is," he agreed. "Hopefully it isn't a dead end. How do you suppose we get across?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm not swimming in that," John added, affronted.

"How else do you expect to get to the other side?" Sherlock demanded.

"No going around, I suppose," John said.

Sherlock hummed to himself. He looked down and up the dark, stinking river. His tense posture relaxed a little, and he smiled. "Ah," he said. "I believe we have an alternative." He pointed, and John looked. Distantly upriver, there was a tiny green light, fire light, coming closer. Sherlock cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Hello!"

There was no possible way this could turn out well. "Uh, remember how the Ratspeaker, the one you wouldn't let me help, said that everything wants to eat us?"

"He was eight, John," Sherlock said, "Everything _did_ want to eat him. You, on the other hand, are armed, in case you've forgotten. Turn around."

John did, let Sherlock fish another protein bar from the knapsack. "You know," he said, "We need to eat those too."

"Would you rather eat it and swim, or get more later and stand on a raft?" Sherlock zipped the bag back up and let John turn back around.

"Point." John held up his lantern, trying to see the green light better. It just barely illuminated a figure upstream. He stood on what looked like a raft with a great sack in the back, the lantern not even really lighting his fist. Using a long pole, he managed to push himself forward, with help from the river. As he approached, little more than a shadow in the weak green light of his lantern, a really horrific smell wafted across John's nose.

"Oh god," John muttered, trying not to retch.

"Can we barter for passage?" Sherlock called. The figure drifted closer, and so did the smell.

"Oh, god is that _him_?" John hissed. Sherlock elbowed him.

"Don't be rude, John. Hello," he added to the figure on the raft as it approached their small pool of light. John, making a concentrated effort to breathe through his mouth, had no idea how he wasn't gagging.

It was—a woman. Well, it was woman shaped, anyway, though it was hard to tell under the thick coating of green and black slime that slicked the ragged clothes. She had dark splotches of what looked like mud on her face, contrasting sharply with the whites of her eyes. The weak light of the lantern reflected from those whites, giving them a sickly blue sheen. Her hair was long and matted, filthy, with more green and brown slime all tangled in it. It was impossible to tell what color it was under all the filth. There appeared to be bones in it, too, and claws, possibly from a cat. She stank like the Great Stink, like the Thames at low tide, like putrefaction, and every bad thing to ever come out of a drainage pipe.

She said nothing.

"Will you take us across?" Sherlock asked again. He gestured to the tunnel across the Fleet.

She held out one filthy hand, the one without the lantern. It too was slicked and slimed, her fingernails over-long with god knew what stuck beneath them. Sherlock passed her a protein bar.

She sniffed it, turned it around in her hands like a rodent inspecting nut. Then she looked up, nodded. She took a step back. "Thank you," said Sherlock. He stepped on the raft.

John's skin crawled, and not just from the stench. His gut churned. This was the worst idea, he just knew it, but like hell was he leaving Sherlock to this woman's mercy. He followed onto the raft.

The woman drew up her pole and pushed against the ledge that he and Sherlock had stood on. The raft drifted away in a tiny, rippling wave, toward the center of the river and darkness.

"So, uh—" John tried, but Sherlock hushed him before he could get the rest of the sentence out. The raft drifted down river a little, and the filthy woman used the pole to correct for it. She must be strong, John thought uneasily; that pole was easily twice her size, and while the current wasn't bad, it was sure to be hard work, poling through the river. Her green lantern was outshone entirely by John and Sherlock's. They approached the tunnel opening in silence, except for the thrumming of the rushing water.

The raft bumped gently against the other side. The woman raised her eyebrows.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "Come along, John." Sherlock stepped off the raft.

"Uh, yeah," John added a little weakly, "Thank you." He followed.

The woman sighed, and threw the protein bar into her pile of filth on the back of her raft. She eyed them for a moment, as if sizing them up, or wondering if she could eat them, before shaking her head to herself. She jammed the pole into the ledge of the new tunnel and pushed. Her raft drifted away and then further down the Fleet. She disappeared into a pinpoint of green light, then darkness.

"Was is just me," John said slowly, "Or was that skin-crawlingly creepy?"

"Hmmm," Sherlock murmured. "John, look. This looks like peat." He crouched down.

"Peat?" John echoed. "Because that makes perfect sense. There's no sunlight here, Sherlock! How can there be peat?"

Sherlock scooped some up in his fingers and straightened. "Texture says peat," he insisted, rubbing it between his fingers. He looked ready to taste it, but John grabbed his wrist and pulled it away from his mouth.

"Banks of the River Fleet," he said sternly, "Still mostly sewage. You are not putting that in your mouth."

"Bank of the river," Sherlock murmured. "You don't think…?"

"Think what?"

"Nothing, preposterous," Sherlock said. He dropped the peaty soil. "Let's keep moving. The tide will rise eventually, and I would like to be out of the sublittoral."

John adjusted the knapsack with a grin. "Yeah, you're not the only one. Let's go."

They continued on, their lantern lights swinging merrily. John found himself in high spirits. The woman with the raft had not tried to eat them, and they'd managed to cross the river without becoming wet or filthy.

Of course, that was when light bloomed in the tunnel, and color behind his eyes. The world caught fire, tilted sideways, and Sherlock cried his name before everything turned _red. _

_._

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

John came to lying flat on his back. He hurt down to his bones. His bloody _hair_ hurt. It was a deep, nonspecific pain, but it was everywhere. He groaned, and the sound screamed in his ears.

"John." Two fingertips were pressed into his neck, taking his pulse. "John, can you hear me?"

John groaned again. Nausea swept in waves up through his stomach. "Easy," Sherlock was whispering. "I have you."

John tried to open his eyes, but that was a mistake, because the colors swooped and swirled around him. He closed them again.

The ground beneath his back was hard and uncomfortable. It felt wooden, but also strangely warm, as if he were lying on a great beast that was breathing. It sounded like steam was issuing from somewhere below him, the low chugging of an old-fashioned train waiting in a station, pistons hissing. John wondered sluggishly what the hell had happened.

Sherlock's fingers stayed at John's neck. "You said he would recover!" he was snarling to someone in the distance.

"In time," said another voice, deep and resonating. It made John's skull ache. "We took fifty years from him. It leaves a mark."

"_Leaves a mark!" _shrieked a second voice, raspy like a crow. It drilled painfully into John's temples.

Sherlock's fingers pressed a little too forcefully against John's pulse. His friend was very angry, John thought woozily. "I told you. I cannot function in this capacity without my assistant."

"So you did. Your information is good, I'll grant you that. However, one does not step foot on the Underside Line without payment of something precious, Mr. Holmes. We made a deal. I am being _very_ generous. His soul would have made _excellent_ fuel. Half payment now, half payment later."

What the hell? John's head hurt, but through the pain something very like fear was worming around in his heart. His soul?

Sherlock's fingers were still against his neck, but his other hand came up and cupped his forehead, gently, fingers smoothing back into his hair. It felt bloody marvelous.

"Ow," John whispered, not so much that the fingers hurt, but more that the whole situation hurt. It was, after all, Sherlock's fault. He had no idea how, but it was definitely down to Sherlock. Things like this didn't happen without Sherlock around.

"Don't ever do that again," Sherlock told him.

John quirked a smile without opening his eyes. "What happened?"

"It seems our Ratspeaker friend was not lying," Sherlock murmured lowly. "We were indeed near the Underside line. What do you remember?"

John groaned, trying to make his brain function. "A woman who smelled," he said. "Then we were on the other side—there was peat—and then… Red. Just a lot of red."

Sherlock made a gulping noise. "Heat?" he asked, strangled.

"Yeah."

That noise again.

John peaked open his eye. It was a mistake. He closed it again. "You okay?"

"You were almost incinerated and you're asking if I'm okay?" Sherlock's breathing had gone a little funny.

The light was odd in here, John thought, utterly off kilter. He opened his eyes again, squinting. Sort of orange. It was overwarm as well. Above his head was a wooden ceiling slightly arched, like that of an old, antique train car. There was a crystal chandelier at its apex, swaying a little. Instead of light bulbs, it seemed to be lit by fire, gas powered. Sherlock reached an arm out to help John sit up when he moved to try. The world spun a little, and he squeezed his eyes closed, but when it settled he risked it again. First one eye, then the other.

Not a mistake. Slowly, the pain faded.

Sherlock was on his knees next to John, one hand in John's hair. He was bathed in orange light from the chandelier. His face looked unhealthily pale, and his eyes were huge in his face. His breathing was too rapid, like he'd run and run, and the arm around John's shoulder shook. "Incinerated?" John asked, trying for levity. "What, again?"

Laughter choked its way out of Sherlock's throat. "No, that was cooking last time," he managed. "This time was—actual incineration."

"Jesus," John said. The trembling had spread – it wasn't just Sherlock's arm that was shaking. He looked like he had finally reached his limit. "Hey—" John started, concerned, but he was interrupted by a booming, merry voice.

"Welcome to the Underside line, John Watson!"

Sherlock flinched, and then turned his head away to glare over his own shoulder. "Let. Him. Breathe," he gritted to whatever was behind them. Oh, he was not doing well, John realized. Sherlock really had reached his limit. Too many impossible things at once.

"Hey," John said. He nudged him. "Hey. It's fine. What happened?"

"You dare to order the Arbiter?" growled a second voice, dark and rasping.

"You need me," spat Sherlock.

"Alright," John told Sherlock. "Alright. Easy. Give us a hand, yeah?" He made to stand, tottering a little.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and steadied John as best as he could, though it was clear he was a little wobbly too. "The Arbiter rules the Underside line," Sherlock told him in a rushed undertone. "Which is, as far as far as I can tell, _completely illogical. _It's a steam engine; requires a crew of two – the driver and the f-fireman."

John blinked, but his friend plowed on, almost frantic, "The Arbiter is clearly the driver: the fireman stands behind him—he's covered in coal. Obvious. But the Arbiter—He wears an Egyptian crown! A, a theatre pop, must be, or a counterfeit but a good one. His clothes are seventeenth century, John, Spanish aristocracy. _Not fake. _They must be; _they must be_. The cane is contemporary. Dutch, but look at the wear marks on it, John—it's at least twenty years old, but that company is only five. It hasn't been repaired. There is salt on his shoes, curing salt as from tanning; there's lyme there too and dust from the East End—there hasn't been a real tannery in the East End in a hundred years. Everything about him is, is—"

"—illogical," John finished for him when his voice cracked. Poor Sherlock was clearly getting error messages from his internal hard drive. He didn't tell him to calm down, but he did squeeze his arm, which seemed to settle Sherlock. John looked up past Sherlock's shoulder.

The Arbiter, for there was no mistaking him from Sherlock's description, was indeed wearing an ancient Egyptian crown. It looked like a bowling pin tucked into a chopped off, red toilet paper roll. Otherwise, he was dressed, as Sherlock had said, as a seventeenth century aristocrat, all black velvet and silk and stockinged legs. He held a black cane the way Mycroft held his umbrella, two hands curled around its handle. Sherlock was right again – the end of it was scuffed and damaged and old looking. He seemed enormously smug.

Beside him, though, was a man almost entirely cloaked in shadow. He was covered in soot from head to toe. John couldn't place his clothes, not without Sherlock telling him when and where they were from; they looked like overalls, blackened by grime. His eyes glowed as if he was lit from within, and they fixed on John's with something that looked an awful lot like hunger.

"The fireman," Sherlock managed, when he saw where John's eyes had gone. He was repeating himself, which was a bad sign. "He—"

"Oh, you really would have made lovely coals," crooned the man in the overalls in his raspy voice, interrupting Sherlock. Oh, thought John as pure, instinctual terror suddenly swept through him. He clutched at Sherlock's arm, but did not look away. "Your soul could have powered our dear engine for at least three years. Pity."

_My soul?_

"Pity! Pity!" shrieked something from behind the two men. John sucked in a shocked breath when he saw it, but he held it together because Sherlock was shaking violently now, clearly seeing nothing but _404 error, page cannot be displayed _in place of the thing behind the Arbiter.

The Arbiter had a throne, _of course he did_, a great metal and silk thing all in blue and gold. Sherlock probably knew where and when it was from, but John knew it was not London, and not twenty first century. Sprawled across the throne like a sleepy dog was a—a _thing_, with tiger-striped feathers, closely folded wings and yellow-white claws on its feet. John's first instinct was _dragon?!_ But of course, that was impossible. The feathers were sleek down an avian body, a long tail aloft in the air. There were feathers ruffling and smoothing down the tail, like the crest on a cockatiel. Its head, black and featherless, looked like a raptor from Jurassic Park.

Of course, John realized weakly, because that was exactly what it was. It was a dinosaur—not scaled as they were in movies, but feathered, as all the science said they were. "Pity!" it shrieked again, voice like a crow or a parrot, and its flat black raven's eyes matched those of the Arbiter.

John turned his eyes from the impossible dinosaur and back to the impossible Arbiter.

"We have lost our sweet Sortie," the Arbiter barked, like it was an order. "He was given to us by the Famille des Portes, of Sous Paris, and he was _kidnapped, _taken from us by a madman. We want his _head_, but we want our boy more. Your Sherlock has agreed to find him and return him, John Watson."

"His parents," Sherlock started. The Arbiter scoffed.

"His parents approached us in honor," he sneered. "They needed safe passage from Sous Paris. We granted it, in exchange for their youngest. They know the rules. They would not steal our boy."

"Sous Paris," John repeated to himself.

"Paris Below," Sherlock said. "The Arbiter wants us to find this boy. In return he'll—give you back the fifty years he took off your life."

"What."

"In return for your soul and your life," the Arbiter boomed, "You will both bring back our boy."

"My—my life?" John choked.

"The next fifty years of it," Sherlock managed. His voice was strangled, which was good, because if he didn't sound so worried, John would have killed him. "They'll give it back when we bring the boy. Your—your—" Sherlock's eyes darted wildly to the fireman.

"My soul," John supplied, with a shiver. "The one they wanted to use as coal." The fireman smiled at John. He was missing several teeth. John suddenly felt that there might not be enough air in the cabin.

"That. That they tried to—to—but I stopped them. I struck a deal. They gave it back, they—"

"Our fare," the Arbiter said darkly, "Is very steep."

Yeah, John thought angrily—it seemed like they'd taken what little sanity Sherlock had as part of the bargain, too. Jesus. He squeezed Sherlock's arm again and tore his eyes away from the terrifying fireman. "How much time?" John asked. "Do I have."

"A few years," the Arbiter shrugged carelessly. "No way to tell, really. Certainly not long."

The fireman cackled, and the hair rose on the back of John's neck.

Sherlock made an enraged noise, but he didn't move.

"Well?" the Arbiter snapped. "Will you just stand there and let time tick, or will you find our boy?"

John thought about ticking time. Had they really stolen fifty years from him? That meant—that meant that he had the same lifespan of a ninety year old, give or take. It could be ten years. It could be two months. The nineties were a tricky age. He shivered. "Sherlock?" he asked uncertainly.

"I—" Sherlock pulled himself together with visible effort. "Description. Describe the boy. When was he last seen? Where? By whom?"

The Arbiter hummed. "He is eighteen," he drawled. "Blonde, thin. Eyes of purest blue. Of the Famille des Portes, and therefore possessing a particular useful talent."

John blinked. "And that talent would be?"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock snapped.

The Arbiter boomed a laugh, harsh and mocking. "So you _are_ new. Fresh from the Upworld, are you?"

"So sweet, so sweet," the fireman crooned like a lullaby. John shuddered.

"Then what's this _talent_, of you find it so important?" snarled Sherlock impatiently.

"The boy is an Opener," the Arbiter's voice was mild but deeply amused. "Of the aristocracy. He would have been betrothed to the Lady Ingress of the House of Arch, had we not taken him." A brief pause, and then he chuckled. "Or if the Lady Ingress had not vanished."

"And an Opener is…?" John prompted.

The fireman cackled, Arbiter laughed, and the dinosaur shrieked behind them in a strange bird-like imitation of hysteria. "He opens all doors, even ones that are not there," the Arbiter told John, at last. As he said it, a door in the train car slid open. "And, since Upworlders tend to think everything metaphor, do know that I mean that quite literally. I do hope you enjoy the last vestiges of your life, Mr. Watson, because it seems to me that this is a hopeless endeavor." He smirked at Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled. "Doctor," he bit. "Doctor Watson. Come, John." Gripping John's arm, he pulled him to the exit.

"If he dies before we have our boy, we will retrieve his soul," the fireman added, almost a purr, as they passed. "I do look forward to it."

A chill went up John's spine. Sherlock shoved him, hard, and John went out the cabin door and nearly fell to his knees on hard pavement. When he looked back, the train was gone, but Sherlock was standing beside him. It was dark out, nighttime.

"What the hell just happened?" John demanded.

Sherlock took his arm and helped right himself. "It seems," he said, "That we have a case." He patted along John's arms and shoulders, checking for injuries almost absently. He looked shaken.

"We already had a case," John said. "It was the case of, _why the hell are we invisible, _or _what the hell is London Below._"

"We know what London Below is," Sherlock said, far away. It seemed his impending nervous breakdown was upon them, John thought. "It's unmemorable. Illogical. Fantastic, nonsensical. A maze beneath London's streets, filled with denizens that make even less sense than the corridors."

"And they tried to take my soul," John said.

Sherlock made a creaking noise, like a rusty gear unable to turn. "No such thing," he said hollowly.

John stared at him. Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "I—I didn't think—it was completely illogical—but there you were and there _it _was and _he_ was going to—"

"Alright," John said, "Alright." He rubbed Sherlock's arms. "But you stopped him."

"_They made me run—_" he almost shrieked it, and then choked off.

Had something happened to Sherlock while John was out? Something besides negotiating, besides Sherlock bargaining? "Run where?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, eyes wide and traumatized. "Alright," John said again. "Alright. You don't have to tell me. You fixed it though, yeah? I'm fine. We'll—we'll find Sortie, get my—my life back." He swallowed.

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes focusing at last. "Yes," he said, and then firmer as he visibly grounded himself on the case, "Yes. We'll need more protein bars."

"Protein bars?"

Sherlock nodded. He reached up to squeeze John's arm one more time before dropping it and sweeping away, pulling himself together. "Yes. And you should eat one, too."

As soon as he mentioned it, John's stomach growled. "Hah," he said, "You're right." God, how long had it been since this morning? It felt like ages. Ages and ages, actually. There was no way a day could be this long.

John looked up at the sky. They were outside, actually, and it was night. He'd noticed that before. How long had they been underground? Where _were _they? He swung the pack from one shoulder and then rummaged, fishing two out. "You too, Sherlock."

Sherlock grunted. John ignored him and unwrapped one of their protein bars. He thrust it into Sherlock's fist. "Eat," he said firmly. Sherlock muttered something about it slowing him down, but John did not care. He glared until Sherlock took a bite. Nodding to himself, he wolfed down his own. "Neither of us has eaten all day," he managed. "Not since breakfast, anyway, and you were invisible for four days! Did you eat at all?" John eyed him.

Sherlock gave a one shouldered shrug. "You drank my tea," he said plaintively.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed. "Come on. Let's go find a sandwich shop or something."

"They won't be able to see us," Sherlock huffed.

"Yeah, so we'll leave some change and grab some of their pre-packaged sandwiches. Not a word from you, either, I don't care what you say. You need to eat _something_."

Sulking, Sherlock followed John up the street.

It was Berkley Street, as it turned out, and mostly residential, but John did manage to find a bloody Starbucks. It was night, but they were open because it was London and it was Starbucks. He took two sandwiches, and after some thought, some of their peanut bars and a few plastic wrapped biscottis for Sherlock. Anything to get him eating. He took some drinks, too – juices and iced coffees, things already in bottles. It was hopeless trying to talk to the people behind the counter, so he didn't try. Sherlock eyed him, but John shrugged.

"Works as well as a protein bar for bargaining, right? And we do need to eat."

"We can't pay for all that," Sherlock observed with a wry smile. "Are you proposing we steal it?"

"After the day we've had?" John grinned. "I really don't care. They can't see us anyway."

Sherlock chuckled and started putting what would fit into the pack. "Berkley Square is near," he suggested. "If you wanted to sit to eat."

"Yeah, sounds good."

When they left, no one remarked. John tore open a biscotti and handed it to Sherlock, who munched on it sullenly. He drank some of the juice John gave him too, which was slightly alarming because that meant he really was thirsty.

"So what do we know about Sortie?" John asked, cracking open a juice himself.

"Missing for three months," Sherlock replied, "Blonde haired, blue eyed, roughly a hundred seventy centimeters, given the average size of a teenage boy. Thin. Likely speaks English, but with an accent. He will have the manner of the French aristocracy, as apparently he's from a noble family. Able to open doors, it seems, which is likely the motive for the kidnapping, as there was no ransom—if there was, the Arbiter would have mentioned it. Or paid it."

"You don't think his parents took him back?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "I suggested it previously, but it seems there are—unwritten rules, in London Below, about breaking deals."

"People break rules all the time," John said.

"Not those rules," Sherlock murmured. "Not here. The Baker abided them, as did the rat, the woman we met in the sewer—even though she obviously wanted to steal our pack—and the Arbiter himself. I wonder why."

John had thought there was something funny about how the way the sewer woman looked at them, too. Actually, there were a lot of things funny about the sewer woman, so he let it slide. It was best to keep Sherlock on track. "Do you think he ran off?" John asked. "If I were stuck with them, I'd run off." He shuddered.

Sherlock sighed. "It's possible," he said. "But unlikely. Did you see the throne?"

"There was a dinosaur on it," John replied wryly. "Of course I did."

"And the collar on the beast?"

"Ah, no?"

"It belonged to the boy," Sherlock told him. "The collar said so. So did the throne. If I were going to run off in London Below, a very dangerous place by all accounts, I would most definitely want something with me for protection, particularly something as loyal as that."

"Loyal?" John asked, laughing, "How could you tell? It was a _dinosaur._"

"It was holding one of the boy's shirts, did you not notice?" Sherlock told him, droll. "Of course you didn't. It curled up on his pillow as if waiting for him. The throne belonged to the boy, I'm sure of it."

"You sure it didn't eat him?" John asked wryly.

"No. No blood on the shirt. It was waiting for its boy like a dog on a driveway. Loyal."

"So. Kidnapped," John said. "You don't think we could have used it to sniff him out?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Too late now. I'm not going back there without the boy. Even then, they're likely to try to trick us."

"Oh?" John asked.

"The Underground Line has a fare," Sherlock murmured. "Just like any Tube. Our fare for stepping on it once was the boy, or your life and—the other thing."

"And you think that if we step on it a second time they're going to charge us double," John said. "Even if we have Sortie with us."

Sherlock nodded. "I suggest we bring the boy _and_ his kidnapper, who should be easily identified."

"Oh?" John asked, startled.

"He or she will likely have wounds from the dinosaur." Sherlock smirked, and John laughed at the absurdity of that particular statement.

"Ah, well, that's something," John grinned. They reached the end of Berkley Street, and Berkley Square came into view.

"Oh," breathed Sherlock. John's mouth fell open.

Berkley Square was transformed.

It was lit up, which happened occasionally, but not like this. Gas fires and smoke wafted from what looked like a hundred grills. John could smell curry and spices, meats and mushrooms, and he could hear the loud laughter and chatter of a marketplace. There were people streaming in from various streets, coming up from manholes, out of the woodwork, and wandering cheerfully into the market in the square.

The manholes were kind of a giveaway. "Do you think this is London Below, or some Above fair?" John asked, though he already knew the answer. This could be nothing but Below.

Sherlock seemed to sense that John was only asking for the sake of asking, because he gave John a _don't be stupid, _look and wandered toward Berkley Square. John shrugged to himself and followed.

The square itself was different, John realized as they approached. It seemed bigger, for one, even with what must have been a thousand yelling people crammed inside. There were more trees, and white, and not at all the familiar sycamores that dotted the square Above.

"Birch trees," Sherlock murmured, as if amused. "Of course. London Below is nothing if not literal."

"Literal?" John asked.

"Berkley," Sherlock explained. "The word means a meadow of birch trees."

"Seriously?"

Sherlock gave him a look. John laughed. "This is completely insane!"

Sherlock smiled back at him, affection and sorrow in his eyes. "Come," he said warmly, "Let's see if we can find word of Sortie, or the Lady Ingress of the House of Arch. I need data."

John followed him, and they meandered to the gates of Berkley Square. The crowd thickened as they drew near, filled with people of all kinds. There was an old bald man with a garbage bag over one shoulder, and as they approached, John saw the bag move rather alarmingly. Another man, covered in hair but not a stitch of clothing, giggled as he slunk slowly toward the gates. A woman in an eye patch held the leash of a sad looking dog, and—a very small pony? John blinked and turned back to Sherlock. "The lady who?" John asked.

"Ingress," Sherlock said. "The Arbiter mentioned her. She was his betrothed, except that she disappeared. We'll have more luck finding information about her, as I believe the House of Arch is the—the nobility of London Below. The Famille des Portes is the nobility of Sous Paris, and information here may be scarcer."

"You think they're linked," John hummed. They merged with the crowd, men and woman of all kinds, children dashing around their heels. There were boys and girls who looked like Wiggins the Ratspeaker, all dressed in tatters and some even with rats on their shoulders or in their arms. Men and woman with matted hair and beards, wearing clothing that looked disturbingly like the fur of calico cats followed more sedately in their wake. The smell of spices strengthened, and John breathed it in hungrily. From within the square, he could hear people hawking their wares, all drowning each other out into a din.

He heard someone cry, "Nightmares! Get your standard falling nightmare!" before disappearing into the noise, and another, "Broken parts! No working pieces here!"

"Wasted time!" another cried. "One hundred percent lost time! Never get it back—lost time!" He thought about his own lost time, and shuddered.

John caught a glimpse of a stunning woman, pale and dark eyed in a clinging black dress. She found his eye, and winked, and he felt his heart flutter like it hadn't in years.

"Yes I think they're—_no John,_" Sherlock snapped, and John jerked his eyes away. The woman slipped her way against the crowd toward them. Sherlock gripped his arm and pulled him deeper into the throng and among the stalls, and then sharply left behind a stall selling what sounded like—

"Garbage!" bellowed the man behind it. "Filth! Rubbish! Get your useless crap here!"

"Sherlock," John scolded. "What?" Sherlock's grip on his arm tightened.

"She'll kill you," Sherlock's voice was flat.

"She'll—_what?_ Don't be ridi—"

"I'm not being _ridiculous_. I don't know what she is but she's hungry and you are food. No, I am not misinterpreting sex!" Sherlock added, frustrated at John's interested look. "I mean, you are _actually_ food. I don't know how, but you are. We're going through enough trouble to keep you alive without you wandering off to get eaten by—by that."

"Are you boys interested in some junk?" asked the man at the stall, peering at them over his own shoulder. "I've got all kinds! Bits and bobs and trinkets—"

"Ha, no, we're fine," John told him, bemused, as Sherlock glared. "Though if you could tell us where we are, it would be much appreciated," John added.

The man looked at them as if they were quite stupid. "It'll cost you," he said.

Sherlock made a growling noise. "Floating market," he spat.

"If you knew, why'd you ask?" the man asked, startled.

"He asked; I didn't. Now, for more important information: What can you tell me about the House of Arch, or the Famille des Portes?"

"Wait, wait, wait. _What_?" John hissed.

"The Ratspeaker boy, Wiggins, mentioned it. Now shut up and turn around." He reached for the pack and pulled out a glass bottle filled with mocha, from the Starbucks.

"He said it was in three days." John protested as Sherlock rummaged. "You think it's been _three days?_ That's impossible! We haven't slept, we've barely eaten or _drank_ anything. The human body can't function three days without water, Sherlock—we would be dead!"

"Time passes differently here, haven't you noticed?" Sherlock told him impatiently. He held up the coffee to the man selling the junk. "Tell me about the House of Arch."

John almost protested that _that wasn't money, _and then caught himself. Of course it wasn't. They were in London Below. No money. Commodities. The marketplace atmosphere here had him almost reaching for his wallet.

The fact that they'd been wandering inexplicably for three days made him reach for more juice and a sandwich. He did feel tired, now that he thought about it. Three _days_?

The junk man took the glass bottle and sniffed it without opening it. He eyed Sherlock suspiciously. "What do you want to know? I only know the rumor, mate. Best see Old Bailey for details."

"Then give me the rumor," Sherlock demanded. John took a very satisfying bite out of what turned to be a turkey sandwich.

He was bloody starving, hungry enough that he barely mumbled, "You don't mind if I eat this, do you?" before going back to it. He handed half to Sherlock, who glared at him, but ate it grudgingly.

The junk man scratched his scraggily beard. "Well, some years ago," he started, like it was a great tale, "The Lord Portico of the House of Arch had a prospering family. His wife, the Lady Portia of Sotto Roma had born him three children: the eldest, a son called Arch, a daughter called Door, and the youngest daughter, Ingress." He nodded to himself. "Ingress was betrothed to one of the Famille des Portes, as I remember it. Fosters good relations, right, but the boy was taken as a tribute to the Underside line. Pity, that, but they needed a new Opener, after poor old Drempel got killed."

"But what happened to Ingress?" John asked, after swallowing the last of his half sandwich. The juice was gone shortly after.

"Went missing, didn't she?" the junk man shrugged. "When the House of Arch got attacked. They killed the Lord Portico, his wife and the eldest boy. Ingress was kidnapped, they say, to open the Angel's Cage," he added, hushed. "She couldn't do it, o'course. Too little."

"And the other girl?" Sherlock asked, while John was still blinking at the whole Angel's Cage bit. "Door?"

The junk man gave an unpleasant smile. "With respect, sirs, you don't make an Opener angry. She found herself a warrior to slay the Beast of London, and then she herself sent the Angel to Hell."

There were so many things about that sentence that didn't make sense John didn't know where to begin. Luckily, Sherlock had a way of paring down to the essentials. "And the people who kidnapped her," he said, "Who wanted to open this cage, where did they go?"

The junk man shrugged. "No idea."

"Can you tell me about the Famille des Portes?" Sherlock asked.

"French, aren't they?" the junk man shrugged. Sherlock made a frustrated _I'm-surrounded-by-morons_ noise.

"And where can I find the Lady Door?" Sherlock said. "I would like to question her."

The junk man brayed with laughter. "_Question _her?" he asked. "The Lady of the House of Arch does what she likes, sir. But, in all likelihood, she's somewhere in the market."

Sherlock nodded once and spun on his heel. "Come, John."

"Hey, you sure you don't want to buy some junk?" he asked John, hopefully.

"Uh, no, thank you." John gave a little wave and scarpered after Sherlock. "You think it's got something to do with that—that angel?" he grimaced, hating to even say the world because it sounded absurd. "You think there really was an angel in a cage?"

"Who knows?" Sherlock scowled. "Apparently, anything's possible. You there!" He waved at a small girl running past and offered her a protein bar. She hesitated and then looked at it suspiciously.

John blinked at her. She was wearing a faded green dress, all ruffled and Victorian looking, except shabby, like she had been rolling in the dust. Her hair was matted, but her eyes were clear blue and clever.

"To whom do you owe fealty?" asked the girl, a little snobbily.

"Myself. I'm looking for the Lady Door."

The girl frowned. She took the protein bar, sniffed it and then nodded. "Wait here." She ran off.

"What are the odds that she just stole that?" John asked wryly.

"Slim, actually," Sherlock murmured. "The honor code here seems very strict."

John glanced around at the people hawking their wares. He caught sight of what looked like a small slave market, and shivered. "Honor code," he said doubtfully, "Right."

Sherlock followed his eye. "Well," he amended, sounding distasteful, "It isn't a very extensive honor code."

John huffed a disbelieving laugh and rolled his eyes.

"Er," said a man.

John turned around.

He was dressed in faded jeans and trainers that had seen better days, and a ruffled shirt that might have been white, once. Now it was torn, and covered with a patched and frayed dark jacket, like a strange mixture of a Victorian dandy and a modern businessman on his day off. "I heard you're looking for the Lady Door," he said suspiciously.

Sherlock straightened. "Yes. We have questions for her regarding her sister."

The man's eyes went wide. "Ingress?" he breathed. "You know about Ingress?"

"Please, may we speak to the Lady Door?" John asked before Sherlock could snarl something impatiently.

The man eyed them. "You're from Above," he said.

"We just fell through, yes." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He nodded to himself, as if that made sense. "Yeah, I figured as much." He beamed, puffed up. "I'm from Above myself, as it turns out. Follow me."

"Idiot," Sherlock mumbled. John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock scowled and nudged John forward. They followed the stranger, at a cautious distance. "Of course he's from Above; he stands out in this crowd," Sherlock muttered angrily, "Look at his jeans! No one here wears clothes that actually _fit _them, except for their shoes. And the patches on his jacket—he sewed them himself, sloppily, because he doesn't know how. Everyone here has neat stitches; they can sew."

John grinned at him. "Three days in London Below, and you can already tell if someone was born Above or not. That's brilliant."

Sherlock smiled back, gratified. Their shoulders knocked. It was reassuring. "It's perfectly obvious."

"Of course it is, if you're _you_." The teasing was good, too. Things were still bizarre, but they were in this together. London Below didn't stand a chance, John thought, spirits lifting.

"Door!" their guide staggered clumsily through a crowd of greenish people who looked quite dead, even though they were standing and talking animatedly.

"Oh, _Richard,_" sighed the woman who could only be the Lady Door herself.

Her clothes were shabby, like everyone's in the market, and they were vaguely Victorian, but that was where the similarities ended. Though well-worn, her clothing was clean, velvets crushed from use instead of by design. Lace peaked from her sleeves, stained but they were old stains, faded from washing. The velvet was patched in some places, left torn in others, and John could see other clothes, other fashions, beneath the velvet. She looked like someone out of time, but not lost. A traveler from another era who had found precisely where she belonged, and she was regal.

"They said they knew about Ingress," the man, Richard, said. The woman looked sharply from Sherlock to John, and John barely kept his mouth from falling open.

He'd privately thought Sherlock had remarkable eyes—gray and green in different lights, sometimes blue. Not that he would ever share this information, since the bloody bastard was vain enough. John himself had been told that he had lovely eyes from numerous girlfriends. He knew that his were easily mistaken for brown, when they were in fact dark blue.

He and Sherlock had nothing on the Lady of the House of Arch.

Her eyes were like gemstones, actual gemstones, and John had always thought that that particular comparison was inane. But the Lady Door's eyes truly seemed to have facets in them; they were gray, except where they caught the light and glimmered fire orange and shining green, deep blue and yellow. They were like opals, he thought wonderingly, always a different color. A quick glace to Sherlock showed his friend was equally captivated.

"Fascinating," Sherlock murmured, enraptured. "Are your eyes a trait associated with Openers?"

The man, Richard, spluttered, clearly not knowing how to respond to that. "From Sherlock," John said quickly, "That's a complement."

She smiled, not seeming perturbed at all at the strange remark. "Well then thank you," she said. "And yes. They are."

"All Openers?" Sherlock pressed. "Not just your family?"

"Sherlock," John hissed.

But the Lady Door actually answered, and didn't seem offended. "Yes. Did you have information for me about my sister? "

"Uh. Questions, actually," John told her, a little sheepish. He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking at the Lady Door intently.

"And possibly information," Sherlock said at last, "Perhaps if we could go somewhere more private than the market place?" Which was actually quite polite, for Sherlock. He did have his moments, John thought wryly.

"Richard stays with me," she said firmly. "Anything that is said to me can be said to him."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. John stays with me."

"—which leads us to introductions," John said, realizing that they had not, in fact, introduced themselves.

"Tedious," Sherlock muttered, but John elbowed him.

"I'm Doctor John Watson," John continued, thinking that adding the _doctor_ in there might make them sound more trustworthy, but who knew in London Below? "This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective."

The man called Richard raised his eyebrows. "A doctor?" he asked. "Really? A London Above doctor?"

"Ah, yes?" John asked. "I was trained as a surgeon, actually."

He was grinning. "A real, actual, twenty-first century doctor? _In London Below?_"

"Uh, yes?"

"_That's brilliant!_" Richard beamed. "Door! An _actual _doctor! Without voodoo, or, or weird experiments or organ harvesters—"

Door gave John a look that said very eloquently, _he's stupid, but I like him._ "Perhaps, then, you can take a look at a scar on my right arm, in return for answering your questions?" she offered. "I reserve the right to ask my own questions in return, of course. Information about my sister doesn't come cheap. I ask a question for every one of yours, and I want a true answer, too."

John blinked. "Of course," he glanced at Sherlock, who nodded at him. "We'll answer your questions. I'm happy to take a look, too, but I'm not a dermatologist. How old is the scar?"

Door gestured with her head, and John and Sherlock followed her and Richard. They headed to a thick birch tree, decorated with bright flags around its center for some reason. There was a man nearby selling samosas that smelled divine.

"Several years, actually," she said.

"Does it hamper your movement?"

"No, just ugly." She shrugged. "And a reminder of—worse times."

John grimaced. "Then there's not much I can do for it, I'm afraid. I can find you some creams, but I don't have any on me. I've got an old ugly scar too," he added with a wry smile.

"You like your scar," Sherlock said. "Badge of honor. You survived." John shrugged at him.

"Still ugly."

"Tell me what kinds of creams, and we'll call it even," Door said. "Here we are." They'd reached the tree.

The white bark was carved. Great brown-black scars drew a rectangle about Door's height in the trunk. Lightly, Door reached out and touched the white bark in the center of the rectangle with her fingertips.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, and even John gasped as the bark of the tree swung open, a doorway to god knew where. "Christ," John whispered.

Richard grinned at them. "Opener's a best friend you could have, down here." He beamed at Door and walked through the threshold without a care in the world.

She looked after him as he went as one might look at a particularly stupid puppy with very floppy, very adorable ears. "No one's here!" Richard called from beyond the doorway.

"He's—?" John asked, thinking himself very clever for not assuming husband, because he clearly wasn't. No rings.

"Security," Sherlock filled. "Part of the household."

"Very good, Sherlock Holmes," Door replied, and gestured for them to proceed her through the door. "Richard is a Warrior," she added as she followed them through the door and closed it. John didn't hear her.

They were standing in a great white room without doors. The floor was white marble, and upon the walls were paintings in great brass frames; each was of an empty room, and nearly the size of John. "Where—" he cleared his throat. "Where are we?"

"My house," Door said. "The House Without Doors." She touched one of the paintings.

Reality went sort of fuzzy for a moment. There was a feeling of _home warm safety violation death horror, horror, horror, sorrow apathy memories, distant fondness growing stronger, fortification determination __**home**__. _

John blinked.

They were standing in a sitting room, a grand parlor. "Sorry about that," Door said lightly. "The walls have memories. I suppress what I can with visitors, but it's really very strong."

"She's better at it now," Richard said proudly. "Can block the specifics, and doesn't even need to hold your hand." He smiled warmly at his friend.

"From when your sister was taken," Sherlock said flatly, "And when your family was killed."

"Sherlock!" John hissed, but Sherlock continued, heedless.

"You found them."

The Lady Door nodded once. "Will you look at my scar?" She started unbuttoning and unlacing her sleeve. "Please, take a seat." She nodded to the very squashy looking sofa and chairs.

"Uh," John said, uncomfortably. "Would you rather do this in private?"

"It doesn't matter," Door said. "Richard was there when I got it, you're a doctor and that's your friend. I don't mind."

"Sure," John shrugged. He sat, rather than hovering, and glanced to Sherlock, who sat on an armchair next to John's.

Sherlock looked at Door unbuttoning her sleeve; he looked at Richard, leaning casual and comfortable, against the arm of one of the chairs. He blinked. He blinked again. He looked at John. "Their friendship is similar to ours," he told John, sounding stunned.

"What, so one of you follows the other around on his or her mad adventures?" he smiled warmly at Sherlock, to show he was teasing.

"Actually, yes," Richard chuckled.

"Here," said Door. Her dress had buttons up the sleeves, and she had carefully undone and rolled one up to her shoulder, as well as the layers underneath.

Her skin was pale, but the scar was raised, even after many years. It cut down from her shoulder almost to her elbow, a little jaggedly.

"Knife wound," Sherlock said, intrigued. "Ten—fifteen?—years old. Normally it doesn't bother you—you haven't tried to treat it before—but you clearly think about it sometimes because-"

"Hush," John told him firmly. Sherlock hushed.

John strolled over. He didn't touch, but had her rotate and flex her arm, one way and another. She was right; her movements weren't hampered at all. It was just a large scar, slightly raised. "There's not much I can do for something like this. I can—well, I don't have a cream on me," he said apologetically, "and writing a prescription's a little useless, but the next time I'm in London Above, I'll—well, I'll rob a chemist's." He smiled wryly. "But honestly it might not be very effective. Still, if you want to try it, I'll grab something for you."

"I can probably get it down here," Door said, but John looked doubtful.

"Really?" he asked.

"You can get anything at the floating market," Door shrugged.

"Alright. You got a piece of paper?" Richard handed one, and a pen. "Any allergies?" John asked Door. She shook her head, so he very neatly and carefully wrote down a brand name and a chemical name. "Try this," he told her. "If it gets worse, or hurts, or irritates your skin, stop using it—we can find something else. Really, there's not much you can do for scars that old."

"I know," Door said. "But Richard's been talking about London Above doctors for ages. I thought I should see what all the fuss was about." She grinned, a little impishly. Her strange eyes gleamed with good humor.

John gave Richard an odd look.

"Most doctors in London Below are quacks," Richard said passionately, "who would sooner steal your kidneys than help with rashes. Or they're witches, or warlocks, or whatever, or they use leaches and mercury—"

"Oh, _Richard,_" sighed Door, exasperated and fond the same way John was when Sherlock asked him, _not good?_

"It seems you have a niche Below, John," Sherlock murmured, his eyes gleaming. "If that's done with, I do have some questions for you, Lady Door." He sat forward on his chair. "Your sister's been missing for fifteen years? The same age as your scar."

John strolled to lean on the armrest of Sherlock's chair.

Richard blew out a breath. "How did you know that? Why do you want to know about Ingress, anyway?"

"Let him ask the questions, Richard," Door scolded. She turned back to Sherlock, "Yes, about fifteen years. She'd be nineteen now. I would like to know why you're asking after my sister."

John looked at Sherlock. Door didn't want to eat them, and neither did her companion. She looked to be in her early thirties, but she carried herself regally and with poise. She was an aristocrat, but more than that she had lived through something very horrible once, and it had made her very strong. She was the first human person John had met in London Below, and he wanted very badly to trust her.

Of course, working with Sherlock, he knew better than to do that.

But then Sherlock defied all his expectations and told her the truth. "When John and I fell through we ended up on the Underside Line."

Door's eyes went wide. Richard glanced at her, but said nothing.

"Their fair is steep," Sherlock continued darkly. "The fireman took John's life and his soul. I—bartered with the Arbiter." He swallowed. "Apparently, they have lost their Opener. We are to bring him back. Similarly, you have lost your little sister. I believe the two instances may be connected, but I am new to London Below. I need data."

"There are other Openers?" Richard asked Door.

"Oh, yes," Door told him. "At least one family in every city. The Opener on the Underside line—that's Sortie, isn't it? He's from Sous Paris, Paris Below," she added to Richard. "He was betrothed to my sister."

"Ingress was just a kid though, wasn't she?" Richard asked.

"She was four," Door said sadly. She sat on the large sofa, facing them. "Sortie was three. It was an arranged marriage, like my parents'. Like mine."

"You had an arranged marriage?" Richard looked shocked.

"Oh, yes. His name was Thresh," she smiled. "Threshold. All the way from New York Below. It dissolved when my parents died, of course, and I didn't reinstate it. Too busy." She looked back at Sherlock. "I can tell you, though, that Ingress has nothing to do with Sortie. I know who took her—I just don't know where she went, or what happened after."

"That is precisely the information I need," Sherlock said, eyes gleaming. "Tell me who took her, and why. The junk man said something about an Angel's Cage."

Door sighed. "That is a very long story."

"If these two cases are related," Sherlock told her, "I may be able to find your sister, or at least learn what happened to her. I will relay this information to you, if you help us."

"She's probably dead," Door said flatly. "And it probably has nothing to do with Sortie."

"It might help, though," John told her kindly. "And so far it's the only direction we have."

"No it's not," Sherlock said crossly, but he didn't elaborate. "Tell me, Lady Door, who killed your family?"

Richard hissed, the Lady flinched in surprise, and then sat up straighter.

"Look, I'm sorry," John told her, shooting a look at Sherlock. Seriously, could he be any blunter? Christ! "But we haven't been here for very long, so we don't know things that should be obvious. We need to know."

"Croup and Vandemar," Richard answered. Door shuddered visibly. "They were assassins. They killed Door's family."

"Who hired them?" John asked, as Sherlock was rolling his eyes at the tediousness of the leading questions, because he was an insensitive bastard.

Door took a breath. "There used to be an angel," she said quietly. "He was imprisoned in a labyrinth beneath London Below, because in another time and another place, he destroyed a whole city with water." She nodded to herself, gained strength as she continued. She was beautiful, John thought wonderingly. It was too bad that everything she said was completely insane.

"The angel hired Croup and Vandemar to kill my family, and take Ingress to open its cage. Ingress was too young to open something that big, so they went after me. I agreed, in the end, and I opened the cage, but the door went—Elsewhere. As far away as I could make it."

"Hell," Richard said, "She sent it to Hell, when it wanted to go to Heaven. Croup and Vandemar fell down there as well. So you see, it can't be them, because they're not just dead, but really, really not here anymore."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "And the only way for them to come back," he said, "Would be for you, or someone like you, to open the door. Yes?"

"Yes," Door said, but she turned a little green. "You don't think someone's trying to do that, do you?"

"It's a theory," Sherlock shrugged. "One of many."

Door looked at Richard. "The door I opened is in the Labyrinth. That's where the point is weakest; that's where they'd go, if this theory of yours is right."

"Then I would very much like to investigate it," Sherlock said firmly.

"Could you give us directions?" John asked.

"I can do you one better. The Angel's Cage stands open, so I could make a door to there and bypass the Labyrinth entirely, but not tonight. I'd like rest before doing something big like that." She nodded at Sherlock and John. "You both need rest too, if you were on the Underside line."

"I don't sleep on cases," Sherlock said flatly.

"Time bends on the Underside line," the Lady Door insisted. "You have been awake far longer than you think you have, and if we are going to do this, I want you sharp. Time can pass differently in my house, too, if I wish it. You can sleep, and when you wake it will still be today."

"The Arbiter has fifty years of John's life," Sherlock argued. "There's no telling when he might run out of time. As it were."

"You also owe me four questions. Find my sister," Door said, "and I can forgive the questions and give you twenty extra hours, on top of what you might already have."

"W-what?" John breathed. "How?"

Richard sighed. "That's the problem with buying lost time," he said, taking a bottle out of his pocket, "You can never hold onto it. I got it at the Market today. I wanted some extra time to work," he muttered, sounding annoyed. He handed it to John. "Here. Twenty hours. Drink up."

Sherlock held up a hand. "In the eventuality that your sister is dead, I will find out where she died. If she is alive, I will find out where she is. If John—if he can't—_if John is incapacitated, _I'm rescinding this deal. These are my terms."

John touched Sherlock's arm. Sherlock glared at him, but John knew that was in reality anxiety, not anger.

"Agreed," Door said. John took the bottle.

"I just drink this?" he said uneasily. "Sherlock?"

"Bartering is sacred here," Sherlock told him. "They won't lie. Drink it, John."

John looked at the bottle. It was frosted green glass, like a very old Coca-Cola bottle that had been sitting at the bottom of the ocean. He uncorked it. "Here goes," he said doubtfully, and sipped it.

It was—like orange soda, the kind he'd had as a kid. Another sip, and another, and he became surer of it: orange soda. It didn't taste the way it did as an adult—too sweet and unpleasant, when he'd had it in Afghanistan that time it had come in someone's care package. It tasted the way it had when he'd been a boy, stealing it from Harry just to make her shout. He could almost taste the triumph.

When he finished, Sherlock nodded wearily. "We'll rest, if you insist."

"I do," Door said. She rose and touched one of the walls.

The room she brought them to only had one huge bed. John absolutely did not care because as soon as he saw it, he realized how bloody exhausted he was, and a look at Sherlock confirmed that he was too. It had been a long, long—however long it had been. Days. Days filled with impossible things, and almost dying, and Sherlock's computer brain sending up errors left and right. Poor Sherlock, who had probably been up even longer than that, shouting at John. God, that seemed like last year. They both needed rest.

"It'll still be today?" Sherlock asked, and he sounded like a child at bedtime, trying to stay awake.

"Yes," Door said. "Get some sleep. I'll come back for you." She left through the doorless wall, leaving them alone.

John slung his pack off his back. Carefully, he started to unwind the bandage from around his neck, but he didn't have the energy to check on the wound at his throat. He stripped down to his shirt and boxers and then flopped onto the bed with a tired groan.

Sherlock actually curled up next to John on the bed. "You're not allowed to die," he said. He reached out and turned John's head, inspecting the wound left by the Baker's knife.

"Won't," John sighed. His eyes closed trustingly as Sherlock touched his neck, and he was already half asleep when he added, "Promise."


	3. Chapter 3

I just wanted to say thank you for my loyal reviewers! Your comments are really, really appreciated. I'm so sorry for making you wait! Next part out probably this weekend :) This story is actually finished - so it won't be abandoned, I promise!

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><p>When John woke up, lying spread eagle on his back, he felt completely wrecked.<p>

His head was killing him, and his joints ached like he'd come down with flu. There was an itchy line from behind his ear to his collarbone, and he would swear he could feel every single muscle in his body throbbing in time with his heart.

Except for his left hand—that had gone dead, because Sherlock was asleep with John's wrist tucked up between his cheek and his shoulder, gripping John's forearm hard enough to cut off the circulation. He was curled into a tight ball at John's side, and his knees were digging into John's left hip. There was no wriggling out of that grasp, so John accepted it. The rest of him felt like hell, so what difference did one hand make? Sherlock probably needed the sleep anyway.

John closed his eyes again. Why did he hurt so much? Where the hell were they, anyway? Not drugged. He didn't feel drugged.

The memories came crashing back all at once, but John didn't do anything more than sigh. Ah. Right. They were in the House without Doors, which was kind of an ironic name, he pondered idly, when the lady of the house was, in fact, named Door.

Well, it was a House with Door, not Doors. There was only one here, after all.

His head probably hurt from the Baker, knocking them out. Minor concussion—god, that really wasn't good, was it? Who knew how long ago that had been. The itch from his ear to his collar bone was the cut she's given him with her knife, too. He hoped it wasn't infected. God, he did not have time for a concussion, either. His wrists stung for the same reason—chafing, from that chicken twine. But the rest of him? Why did his joints feel horrible?

Carefully, he moved his other hand to scratch. The skin of his neck wasn't warm, which was a relief, though flakes of the scab came off in his hand. Oops.

And now he needed the toilet.

Carefully, he flexed his fingers, trapped between Sherlock's shoulder and face. They were tingly and thick. Sherlock grumbled. John petted his cheek fondly with a thumb. "Need my hand back," he whispered. "Have to use the loo."

"Mphl," said Sherlock.

"You are a faker," John told him solemnly.

Sherlock opened one eye blearily. "Am not," he rasped.

"Are too. How do you feel?"

"Appalling," Sherlock mumbled. That eye sank closed sleepily. "Sore."

"Yeah, me too. Why is that?"

"Arbiter," Sherlock growled. "Took your life. Hurts. Screaming—" he swallowed.

John did not remember that at all, probably a blessing. "Then why are you sore?"

Sherlock blinked, waking up for real. "How long have we been asleep?" he asked. He had yet to release John's hand. John wriggled it, and Sherlock let it go.

"No idea." John heaved himself upright. All of his muscles complained, and he groaned. "Urgh. Hang on." He looked around. "There's no doors in here. Is there a loo at all?"

Sherlock yawned. "Chamber pot. Under the bed."

"Wonderful." John wrinkled his nose, but he pulled it out. He glared at Sherlock til his friend rolled his eyes and twisted on the bed, arm over his face in a dramatic "not looking" gesture. "How do you think we get out of here?" he asked once he was done using the pot. "There's no doors. And you never answered my question. Why are you sore?"

Sherlock heaved himself up and wandered to John's pack. Their clothes had been cleaned and dried, including the jumpers inside. "Put your clothes on. I imagine we just call for the Lady Door." He started to dress himself.

"It's because of whatever happened with the Arbiter, isn't it?" John asked him gently. "While I was out?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Leave it, John."

John touched his shoulder. "Alright." He started dressing, too. Pawing through the pack, he found nothing had been stolen, which was a relief. He jammed his gun, which he'd stored for the night in the pack, in the small of his back. It was sodding London Below—it would most certainly come in handy.

John uncapped a juice and started drinking. It wasn't tea or coffee—technically, they did have Starbucks coffee in a few glass bottles—but he figured it at least had sugar, and maybe a few vitamins. Besides, the coffee could probably be bartered for more than the juice.

Sherlock stole glances at him, and finally said stiffly, "The Arbiter. It was—bad." That was all he could seem to manage, but John nodded, and changed the subject.

"Do you have any theories? About Sortie?" He offered Sherlock the juice and unwrapped a protein bar for him.

Sherlock seemed grateful for the change, though he scowled haughtily at the food. "Several."

"Talk me through it?" Despite the friendly tone, John glared until Sherlock took the food and the bottle.

Sherlock huffed as he crunched on the bar. "Not here. I doubt this place is secure." He sipped the juice.

John nodded, eating a bar himself. The Lady Door _seemed_ trustworthy, but so had lots of suspects in the past. Dressed at last, John swung their pack onto his back. Sherlock took that as his cue.

He strolled over to the nearest wall and knocked. "Lady Door?"

Almost as soon as he said it, the wall swung open.

The Lady Door was standing alone on the other side of the threshold, the great white room behind her. She eyed them both critically and then nodded. "Yes, much better." She stood to one side.

Sherlock walked out, and the door closed behind John as he followed. That was actually pretty bloody creepy.

"No Richard?" John asked curiously.

"He's out buying more time," Door shrugged. It took John a minute to parse that she meant literally.

"So," Door continued, all business. "I can get you into the Angel's Cage, since it's open. Do _not_ close the front door. It will lock you in, and you won't get out. When you're finished, you'll have to find your way out through the Labyrinth, I'm afraid. I can't really help you with that: there are talismans that will lead you to the center, but not back out, so you're on your own. Luckily, there's no beast there anymore. The Labyrinth leads out to Down Street. Usually."

"Usually," John echoed doubtfully.

"How shall I contact you?" Sherlock asked, "If I should find any information about your sister."

Door hummed. "The rats can find me. Or, if you're near a tube station, ask the Earl. He'll know. Failing that, I'll be at the next Floating Market. It's in Westminster Cathedral, in two weeks' time. Ready?"

John squared his shoulders. Sherlock glanced at him and he nodded. "Yes," Sherlock said.

Door touched the white, white wall of the white foyer room. It swung inwards. "Good luck," she said gravely. Inside, it was darkness.

John turned around without a word. Sherlock rummaged inside the pack and brought up both lanterns, candles, and a match. He lit one, handed it to John, and then lit the other.

"Thank you," John told Door.

She smiled back, and her strange eyes gleamed orange. "Don't thank me. Find my sister."

John nodded. "We will." Sherlock zipped up the pack. John turned and met his eyes. Together, they strode through the door.

As soon as they were through, into the dark echoing space, John looked back. There was no light. When he went to investigate, he found a great, wooden and mirrored door flung outward. Holding his lantern high, he saw that there was a swamp beyond it. Door's house was gone.

"The Labyrinth, I presume," Sherlock said at John's back. "And that's the door we mustn't close."

"I wouldn't even know how to close it," John murmured, "It's huge."

"I imagine it's easier than you think. Come, John." Sherlock turned his back on the gloomy Labyrinth and walked into the stone hall. His footsteps echoed. John followed him.

The space was vast and hollow, and the ceiling, when John held up his lantern, was only darkness. They walked on and on. Sherlock stopped to investigate something on the floor, which he showed John: two long rows of candle wax, but no candles. They walked between them, down a long hallway until it opened up in a great cavern. Eight iron pillars stood in a rough octagon at its center, and they stretched up and up as if forever, eventually disappearing from view. From somewhere, there was the sound of water.

Sherlock went straight to the far wall. When he held up his lantern, John saw another door. This one was black. Sherlock touched it carefully. He rubbed his fingers together.

"Flint and tarnished silver," he said thoughtfully. "And scuff marks…John, I need my magnifier."

John meandered over and took off the pack. Sherlock rummaged through it. "Where do you think this one goes?" John asked him.

"Elsewhere," Sherlock said flatly. John shivered.

"Oh."

"Here: look," Sherlock had retrieved his magnifier and stood up. "Scuff marks: leather, from shoes. And…" he hummed. "What do you see here, John?"

John stood beside him. Through the magnifier, there was something glowing, snagged on an outcropping of rock. "Glow worm?" he asked, tentatively. He knew it was most definitely not.

"Fabric," murmured Sherlock. "It's a fiber. Fabric that glows?"

"Angel," John whispered. He was standing close enough to feel Sherlock tense.

"Angel," he agreed, a little scornfully. "And two men, both wearing leather shoes of slightly different make. One fell, flailing. Here." He pointed a higher on the door's edge, showing a scuff mark that could only come from a shoe, apparently, "And the other fell—no footprints, you see, but fabric on the edge, here; he miscalculated a little. His side brushed the doorframe but otherwise it was a controlled fall, after the first."

"The assassins," John suggested.

Sherlock nodded. "And here?" Now he smiled, a little triumphantly. There was a footprint in the dust. "This is Sortie."

John blinked. "How do you know it's not one of the assassins?"

Sherlock grinned. "It has a heel," he said, "In the style of an eighteenth century man's dress shoe. Terribly impractical for an assassin, but not a French aristocrat—there are impressions of lace around it in the dust, do you see?"

"Brilliant," John said, and Sherlock preened.

"Both assassins fell through the door," he continued. "Not as if pushed: they fell as if down a hole. See the angle of where his foot would have to be to scrape it there. He would be nearly upside down. And the second was diving, not stumbling, or there would be footprints. Imagine: a great pull on the other side of the door. This becomes down." He pointed to it. "The assassins, the angel, fall. The others—" he held up his lantern in the direction of the pillars, and John squinted away from the wall. There were three sets of manacles. "Chained. See the marks in the dust, leading to the door: rivets in the ground like a great wind, or a mudslide. They fell, or were pulled."

"So," John said, grinning with delight, "A footprint in the dust had to have happened after the door was closed again, or it would have got swept away."

"Precisely. This is the print of a fairly young man, going by the size and shape of the mark, yet it is too wide to be a woman's, statistically. He faced the door, felt for hinges—here." Sherlock reached to the far corner of the door and, with an evidence bag turned inside-out, pulled out a few fibers. "Torn from his cuff. Black jacket, Victorian, judging by the fibers."

He stood, and regarded the front edge of the door before whirling away.

"Watch where you step, John! You'll disturb the dust. Ah! Here is our kidnapper!"

John hurried over, careful to step in Sherlock's tracks. "What can you tell me about him?"

"Modern-day hunting shoes," Sherlock said immediately, "Steel toed. Likely stolen—they're very new. Unusual for a man in London Below—resourceful, impatient: denizens of the Below like to have their shoes made by cobblers or foraged from garbage, but our kidnapper went out and stole them from Above instead. They are new, as well. The tread is very deep—a tall man, unlikely to be large because his shoes are not large, yet he must be somewhat heavy to press such a clean mark. He paced—" Sherlock paced too, following the foot prints, "and waited for Sortie to open the door. Sortie couldn't, or didn't. He stormed up to Sortie—see the spacing of the tracks!—and struck him. There, look, blood. And—ah!"

John passed him another evidence bag, and Sherlock lifted something from the ground—it was a feather, shining glossy black and orange.

"The dinosaur," John breathed. "Here?"

"No," Sherlock said. "This is a keepsake—look." He showed John the back of it. There was a pin, and some fibers clear through the plastic of the bag Sherlock had put it in, as though it had been torn out of a shirt.

"So it came out when he was struck," John said, and Sherlock beamed at him.

"And here! More footprints. Shoes a size too small; the tread is smaller than the print; the leather has stretched. A third person."

"Two kidnappers?" John asked with a frown.

"No. Look how he—no, no, look how _she_ stands, and then crouches. She rocks, afraid. Her dress makes marks in the dust. Another victim."

"Another?" John asked. He walked over, and sure enough, there were footprints that smeared, as though the wearer had been rocking back and forth. Around the footprints, there are smears and scuffs in the dust, apparently her dress.

"Exactly," Sherlock was saying, "We can now place Sortie, another victim, and his kidnapper here roughly… oh, maybe a day or two ago, judging by the dust."

"Fantastic," John grinned. "Any theories?"

Sherlock paced and hummed. "Only two people had easy access to Sortie: the Fireman, and the Arbiter, and both need him to run the train, if I understand the Underside line correctly. Had one of them taken him, the dinosaur would have mauled them. Had the dinosaur been drugged, its feathers, assuming it has a similar metabolism to birds, would have lost their gloss, and its feathers had not. Neither man kidnapped him. It had to be someone else.

Why kidnap Sortie, specifically? If not to open something, perhaps it is for revenge—against the Underside line, his family, himself. Love, maybe—there is any number of reasons to kidnap the boy. We need more data, if this is the case.

Let's assume our kidnapper does want something opened. Why not ask the Lady Door? You could trade for it, easily. Find the Lady Ingress, or her remains, or otherwise barter for it. It would be simple. They could kidnap her, blackmail her with someone she cared about and she might do it—unless she wouldn't. So what is that distasteful? Not killing. Everyone kills in London Below, it seems; death is cheap. Yet our culprit would prefer to risk the Underside line to fetch the other Opener in London Below rather than capture Door, if they couldn't find Ingress, or she was dead. It is clearly something she would object to, even at the cost of her life." He paced faster. "So what would the Lady Door refuse to open?"

"That," John said, pointing to the silver and flint monolith, "the door that leads Elsewhere."

"So far, so obvious. Now, why would you want it opened?"

"The angel?" John asked, doubtfully.

"Unlikely," Sherlock said. "The angel is at best an unknown and at worst an uncontrollable force. Only an idiot unleashes a cyclone. The assassins, on the other hand, can be paid, or otherwise controlled. It must be the assassins."

"But you said death is cheap in London Bellow," John said, "There must be a thousand assassins down here. Why them?"

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Sherlock cried gleefully. "Come, John. We have everything we need from here. We must find evidence of friends and acquaintances of Sortie – his social circle, if any— and evidence of what exactly made Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar so unique."

John smiled at his companion and followed him away from the octagon of iron pillars. They walked through the two rows of candle wax. "So," John murmured, "What's with the—?" He gestured to the wax.

"Lighting," Sherlock shrugged. "See the smears? The candles were mostly sucked away when the door was opened. There are still some by the wall, though." He wandered over and scooped up a small pile of them. "Might come in handy."

"Angel candles," John joked wryly. Sherlock scoffed.

They reached the great, wooden doors, flung open onto a swamp. John held up his lantern, looking out.

It looked decidedly unfriendly. The doors—actually a cliff face, John noticed as they walked out onto the grass—sat in a very small clearing. Beyond it, there were three alleyways, their sides bricked but crumbling. The ground in all three was sloppy and loose, with marsh grasses growing on either side. It was quite dark. John looked up: a hundred thousand stars shown above them.

"Where the hell _are_ we?" he mumbled to no one in particular. "This isn't London."

"Oh, but it is," Sherlock practically crooned. He walked up to one of the stone walls and laid a hand on one of the bricks, holding up his lantern to see. "This is Anglo-Saxon construction," he said. "From when London was little more than a town on the backs of the Thames." He rubbed gently at the stone. "Someone was murdered here," he added, dreamily.

"What?" John spluttered. "How can you tell?" he walked to join Sherlock, but when he looked around he only saw the cliff face and the doors behind him, the stone wall and the grass and the muck.

"Arrow." Sherlock gestured downwards. John looked down: there was an arrow shaft dug in hard amongst the marsh grass, which had grown over in a lump. John was certain there would be a body there, if he dug.

"Christ," John said. An uneasy feeling rose in his gut. It was childish, but he suddenly needed the reassurance: John reached for Sherlock's hand, which had dropped from the wall. "Come on, Sherlock," he said, tugging him away. "We already have a case."

Sherlock sighed. "It was a familial feud anyway," he said, following John easily down the alley, away from the angel's cage. "Dull."

John held up his lantern, lighting the way.

They squelched through the marshy alley, which John had picked at random. Down and down they went, and it got marshier, and wetter. Soon they were walking ankle deep in water, much to both of their displeasure.

"Here," Sherlock said, at last.

"Here what?" John asked, letting Sherlock pull him to a stop. The water was cold in his shoes, and he could swear something slimy and fishlike had brushed one of his ankles.

"There's a door."

"No there's not," John said. The wall looked solid: old gray brick layered with grime and moss.

Sherlock handed John his lantern and touched the wall lightly—

—and the world went sideways. John's shoes were dry, and he gasped in air: not sulfurous and swampy, but absolutely foul. It smelled like horseshit, urine, garbage and low tide, and the ground beneath his feet was cobbled. It was lighter now: dawn light. He gripped Sherlock's hand tightly, disconcerted. The lanterns in his other hand clanked together.

"What the hell?" John squawked.

"Oh," Sherlock said, small-voiced. He held John's hand just as hard. "I—Sixteenth century," he blurted, staring at the brickwork. They were still standing between two walls, only this was an actual alleyway, rather than a swamp enclosed by bricks.

And suddenly, it was comical. "I have no idea why I thought the Labyrinth would be logical," John remarked wryly.

Sherlock gave a bark of laughter. The set of his shoulders relaxed. "Honestly, John, nothing about London Below is logical," he replied. He reached for his lantern and blew it out, before tucking it back into the pack. "Best if one of us has a free hand," he said as an explanation, as he still gripped John's. He tugged lightly, and they started forward.

"It's just," John said, mock-doleful as he let the lantern clank at his side, "The name 'Labyrinth' got me all hopeful, you know? Structures are structures and not _insane._" The dawn light was enough to see by, but he had a feeling they'd be plunged back into darkness soon enough, so he didn't blow out the lantern.

"London is a structure." Sherlock said. "And London is mad. I have no idea what gave you that—Oh. _Oh, of course!_"

"What?" John asked.

"_It's a microcosm, John!_" Sherlock said excitedly. "It's London! I know _London,_" Sherlock added, as if London were an easy question on an exam.

"Well, yeah, but not when it looks like this," John said doubtfully.

"I'd know London anywhere." Sherlock turned around, purpose in his stride. He pulled John the other way. "It lets out on Down Street," Sherlock said. "We just have to find Down Street."

"And where are we, exactly?" John asked.

"Wapping," Sherlock said.

"_What?_"

"Before the docks, John. Before the Blitz. Look at the mud! Can't you smell the Thames? It's Wapping. Once upon a time," Sherlock said, almost lovingly, "All of London was a back alley. Don't you see, John?"

"I don't smell anything but horseshit," John said. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"It isn't only people who can get pulled down into London Below," Sherlock told him. "It's places, too. This is an alley in Wapping that was forgotten, and became part of London Below. Sixteenth century Wapping: never demolished for the docks, never bombed during the Blitz, never rebuilt."

John understood now. "And it just stayed here. Forever."

Sherlock nodded.

"So why did we shift from the swamp to here when you touched the wall?"

"Nothing is logical," Sherlock grumbled like it was a personal offense. "But I imagine the swamps before were the banks of the Thames. It was just a different street. This way." He tugged John sharply to the right.

The cobbled street was brightly lit, suddenly: noon light. They were walking down another, curved alleyway with a modern-day dumpster buzzing with flies, which morphed into a swamp, murky and dark and wet. The swamp became concrete again: sodium lights flickered and buzzed. Somewhere, someone laughed, low and dirty, and as they walked down a deserted, misty street at night, John heard horses whinnying in the distance, the sound of old hansom wheels on cobblestone. They walked through mud, swamp muck, industrial sludge, horse shit, dog shit, human shit and trash. A yellow daytime fog set John coughing and his lantern sputtering and sparking, and Sherlock pulled him swiftly down a backstreet.

Now the walls were painted, covered with what looked like gaudy graffiti. It was all reds and yellows and blues, in great splashes of color. The cobbles beneath John's feet changed too—they were white marble, now. Before them was a series of ionic columns, and sun streamed clear through the openings between them, not a mist or a fog in sight. Sherlock gave a delighted laugh.

"Of course!" he said gleefully, and tugged John onwards.

They emerged through the space left by the columns, and into a sunlit square. The building they came from was huge. It was a basilica, John realized, with a bright red roof and painted ionic columns. Inside, there was a squat, rectangular stone building that looked like a temple, several deserted vendors, and statues painted in the brightest of colors. The basilica wrapped around the edges of it, enclosing the buildings. It looked like a great deserted town square and John felt a smile of wonder touch his lips.

"It's a Roman forum," John breathed. "I mean, it's an _actual Roman forum_."

"London's Forum," Sherlock grinned. "Look—there's a cornerstone missing. It's in London Above." He pulled at John's hand.

John let out a delighted breath, because it was true—there was a cornerstone in of the Roman Forum in London Above. Naturally, it would thus be missing in London Below.

"Wait," John said, "Just—just hang on." He didn't let go of Sherlock's hand, because he had a feeling it would be easy to get separated in this place, and he didn't fancy wandering here alone forever. But he did tug toward the marble statue standing majestically in a red and white painted robe.

"We really shouldn't linger," Sherlock said, a little uneasily.

"I just want to look, Sherlock. How often do you see a pristine Roman forum?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not pristine. Look." He pointed, and John saw a huge hole torn into the basilica. His eyes widened.

"What did _that_?" he asked.

Sherlock led him over. "Something with hooves," he said, gesturing to great tracks torn into the muck between the huge paving stones. "I imagine it was the beast Door spoke of."

"Door talked about a beast?" John asked, wracking his brain. He couldn't remember anything about a beast.

"She mentioned it. The junk man did too. A beast of London. Richard apparently killed it."

John had completely forgotten. He looked back at the size of the hoof marks, the huge chucks of marble torn from the gorgeous Roman building. "What was it, a rhinoceros?" He didn't think rhinoceroses had hooves.

Sherlock shrugged. "A boar, maybe, if those are tusk marks."

"Christ."

"Quite. Shall we?"

"I wish I had a camera. This place is amazing."

Sherlock smiled at John indulgently. He pulled John to one of the many toppled ionic columns and picked up the smallest shard of one of the scrolls: it had cracked into nearly quarters. He offered it to John.

"What, you're going to add stealing from an archeologic site to our various crimes?" John grinned, but he set down his lantern, took the shard and pocketed it. When he looked back, his lantern was gone. John felt his blood run cold.

"It's not an archeologic site," Sherlock was rolling his eyes. "It's the Labyrinth. It's frozen in time. Besides, there's no archeologist to study it. It's only accessible to the denizens of London Below, and even then, they have to find it in the Labyrinth. I'm sure it doesn't reveal its Forum to just—."

"Sherlock," John whispered.

"Oh," Sherlock said, following John's eyes. He gripped John's hand hard.

John stared at the empty space where his lantern had been. "You think it's—alive?"

"Who knows?" Sherlock said uneasily. "It wouldn't surprise me, though." He took the second lantern out of the pack and lit it before handing it to John. "Don't—don't set this one down. Come on. We should go."

John looked around nervously. "Yeah, alright," he said.

Sherlock pulled him toward the far right corner of the Forum. Before they reached the edge, John looked back once, and before his eyes it dissolved. He shivered, thinking it was probably good that they were holding hands, for all its absurdity. John had a feeling that the Forum was deceptive in its brightness, that if John had gone to explore its wonder, he would turn around and find himself utterly lost in the web of the Labyrinth, vanished as completely as the first lantern had. The stone scroll weighed heavy in his pocket.

Day had become night. John blinked to adjust his eyes. There were fires in the distance. Marsh rushes were burning, somewhere. He could smell the smoke. Sherlock took a hesitant step back, into John's shoulder.

"Alright?" John asked him, uncertain.

"Don't let go of my hand," Sherlock said. "And stay on the path. I have a bad feeling about those lights."

John squeezed his hand gently. "Alright." Sherlock squeezed back. He took a deep breath. John could feel him lean on him for just a moment, gathering strength, before forging forward. John held the lantern high, because the marsh lights and the distant fires weren't quite enough.

Sherlock paused after a few steps. "Sherlock?" John asked. He came around and held up the light.

"Stabbed to death," Sherlock mumbled, looking down. John followed his gaze.

There were bodies in the marsh. His breath got stuck in his chest, because there must have been hundreds of them. Some were beneath the water, some half way: all were old. Some were desiccated and dry, others bloated and wet and stinking. "Sherlock?" John asked again. There was a buzzing in his ear. He ignored it.

"There was a battle here," Sherlock said dreamily. "This must be before the Romans: before London was a city, when it was only the river and the rushes. Look at their clothes, their wounds. They aren't long out of the ice age."

John shivered. "Why are there so many of them?" His left shoulder had started to itch, so he rolled it uncomfortably.

"Different times, perhaps. Maybe generations came and went and fought over this spot. Their clothes are all different. Who knows?"

John pulled on Sherlock's hand. "Come on. We shouldn't linger."

Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled. More buzzing; John realized too late that the itching on his right arm was, in fact, a mosquito biting him. "Oh, hell," he mumbled. He let go of Sherlock's hand for a moment, slapping at it. His shoulder started it itch something fierce, too. God, the mosquitoes were _huge_.

Sherlock had paused uncertainly. John took his hand again, squeezed, and Sherlock nodded. They moved forward.

The wide open marshland soon became enclosed marshland. Thick stone walls stood on either side of them, and the small strip of land they were walking through dipped and became soggy. Soggy became wet, and then they were wading again. The mosquitoes buzzed harshly, and the marsh stank of sulfur and decay.

The stinking marsh melted into another cobbled alleyway, and there was a gas lamp in a far corner. The light it cast was quite poor, though that didn't matter much, as they had the lantern. Although—

"Hang on," John murmured. "I think the candle is guttering."

Sherlock paused, but he took a new candle from John's bag obligingly. He handed John a protein bar and a juice, too.

"Thanks. Take one for yourself, too. Should we have a rest, since it's not so damp, here?"

"Hmm." Sherlock reached back inside the pack and pulled out a sandwich. "I never ate mine; you gave me half of yours," he said, smiling faintly.

"Oh, brilliant," John said, and meant it.

They leaned against the filthy wall and split the sandwich, which turned out to be roast beef. John made Sherlock eat a peanut bar as well, and he had one for himself. They each got a bottle of juice.

Compatible silence fell as they ate their respective halves. The gas light was pretty shoddy, John thought. What was that, twenty feet of light? He was grateful for the remaining lantern, even if it was only a candle. He mourned the loss of the other, but he didn't want to think about it. The Labyrinth had taken it, which would terrify him if he let himself ponder it too hard.

John gestured to the gas light. "What's the year on this?" he asked Sherlock idly, sipping on his juice. It was some kind of weird raspberry thing, but it was refreshing, and he was quite thirsty. He was sure they needed the sugar.

"Late nineteenth century, early twentieth," Sherlock replied, just as idly.

When they finished, Sherlock stuffed the garbage in John's pack. "The bottles might still come in handy," he said. "People might trade for them. Or—" He grinned, suddenly.

"Yours is glass. Give it to me?"

John handed it over, curious. Sherlock reached into the pack and brought out a candle and John's pocket knife. Using the knife, he gouged two holes on the sides of the cap, and with the lit candle in John's lantern, he melted the wax at the bottom of the second candle, and then stuck it onto the bottle cap.

"Second lantern," he said. "Just in case." He didn't light the second candle, though, instead shoving it back into the pack.

"Brilliant," John beamed at him, and Sherlock grinned.

"This way." He took John's hand again.

Down the cobbled alleyway they went, and they were suddenly plunged into total darkness, aside from John's lantern. Somewhere, something was dripping, and it smelled _foul. _The walls were red brick, instead of gray, and the ground was soggy again.

"Sewer," John said, wrinkling his nose.

"Obviously." Now Sherlock was hesitating. "But which sewer?"

"No idea. What's the year on it, you know?"

"Nineteenth century. One of the older underground sewers in London—look at the brickwork. Could be anywhere."

"Well," John shrugged. "Why don't we just go straight and then turn out of it as soon as we can, so we're above ground and somewhere you know? How do you know where everything is, anyway?"

"Dirt," Sherlock said, "Sometimes distinctive brickwork, or the shape of the walls, if I can place it. Sounds, smells." He started to walk, gripping John's hand tightly, nervously.

"That's fantastic," John told him, and he smiled.

Through the sewer, and then it was bright, harsh day: modern day, actually. John knew because he could hear a car horn in the distance, and the alley was paved.

"Huh," he said.

"This way." Sherlock perked up. He turned them around and led them the other way down the street, and thankfully it didn't turn back into a sewer. Instead, it became cobbled again, and grew narrow and winding and stinking of refuse and body odor and distantly of barnyard animals.

"Victorian rookery," Sherlock said. "St. Giles."

"It's awful." John wrinkled his nose. Sherlock pulled him along.

"Come on," he said.

They walked along the winding cobbled street. Sheets hung in clusters outside of high windows, and they rippled sometimes in the foul wind. Someone had a pot of dying herbs out of a second story window. The walls, buildings all jammed haphazardly together, were filthy: they were covered in mud, and shit, and Sherlock paused briefly to examine a bloodstain before John pulled him on. At least, John thought, it was daylight.

Down they walked, and the rookery was a swamp again. Nighttime: a huge moon shone in the sky, blood-red and waxing, nearly full. It was very cold. John slipped a little on a patch of ice, and as they walked, the ice went thin until their feet pashed through into the freezing water beneath. Something under his heel crunched like bone when it hit the muddy bottom. John didn't think too hard about it.

"Ugh," John groaned, "My feet will never be dry again. Christ that's cold."

"I believe this is why you packed extra socks?" Sherlock asked wryly, but John smiled at him.

"Jumpers too, but let's keep moving. Maybe it'll pass in the next street."

They turned a corner and it did pass. Now they were walking down a street that wasn't paved at all, without even cobblestone. The dirt and mud clung to John's already damp shoes. It smelled strongly of horse manure, and though not as cold as the swamp had been, it was not warm either.

They walked down the muddy street with bricked up walls, until it became dusty, dry and hot. It felt bloody marvelous for all of two seconds, before the thick, stinking humidity made everything awful. At least it was night.

The loud honk of a distant car with an old fashioned horn made an absurd _a-wooga_ sound. The alley was cobbled now, but the stones were cracking, twisted and old. Everything went misty and dank.

"How much farther?" John asked, a little worried. An overwhelmingly bad smell drifted toward them as they turned a corner and walked up a new cobbled lane. The sun beat down on their backs, which hardly dissipated it.

"Shouldn't be much," Sherlock murmured, wrinkling his nose.

They walked and they walked. Swamps became cobbles and cobbles became marshes. Day and night and mist and fog, and sometimes it even rained. The long corridors and streets divided and doubled back, and they hit a sewer again. John was nearly convinced Sherlock was lost. _John_ was certainly lost. There was no way there could be any logic to this place—how could Sherlock think that? They were going to wander here until they died, John thought, half-way to panicking as they clomped over an absurd bridge of wooden planks. The bridge doubled back on itself, shaped like a weird V. John thought it was entirely pointless until Sherlock led him left, through more swampy reeds in summer, with burning buzzing howling mosquitoes, and then, at last, right down a cobbled road, and they came upon a huge rusted gate in a stone brick wall.

Sherlock stopped short. "Down Street," he said.

"Oh," John replied, shocked.

The wall was huge. Great stone blocks, each wider than John was tall, sat one on top of the other to form the gray, crumbling gateway. They were rough and misshapen and John thought they could only have been put there by giants.

"Cyclopean," he added faintly. "That's what they're called. Cyclopean walls. Right?"

"Something like that," Sherlock muttered. He tugged on John's hand. "Come on."

The gate itself was in utter, rusted disrepair. Big pieces of twisted iron lay scattered about the muddy ground, some sunk deep. As they passed, John noticed that the great corroded hinge was taller than either himself or Sherlock. There were other pieces handing precariously from that hinge, and they looked about three seconds away from collapsing entirely. John steered Sherlock away from them, lest they fall.

The air on the other side of the gateway was, somehow, clearer, and less claustrophobic. John breathed, and looked around.

"Down Street," Sherlock was sighing, as if deeply disappointed, "Of course."

John laughed incredulously. "Of course!" he agreed, grinning at his friend.

Down Street was stone, paved with rough blocks that wound forward, and then up, and then around in a great spiral. John looked up, and up, and it seemed to go on forever.

"We have to walk up Down Street," John said. "This is completely mad."

"London Below is terribly literal. On the bright side, I doubt we can get very lost here. It only goes one way." He released John's hand. "Shall we?"

John blew out the lantern, as he could see that there were wall sconces with actual flaming torches in the wall on the outer edge of the spiral. He pondered, briefly, that replacing those must be the worst job of all time.

"Let's," he agreed, and readily followed Sherlock up the street.

* * *

><p>AN: 'John Stow, the 16th century historian, described [Wapping] as a "continual street, or a filthy strait passage, with alleys of small tenements or cottages, built, inhabited by sailors' victuallers,"' according to Wikipedia. I'm taking that description and running with it! Modern day Wapping, from what I understand, is not like this at all.


	4. Chapter 4

Down Street, as it turned out, was big.

Up and up they went, and up some more, and even farther up, and it didn't seem to end. The incline was steep, so steep in fact that John's much-hated psychosomatic limp started to come back with a vengeance. His muscles ached long into the climb, and though the rock was smooth it still felt like hiking up a bloody mountain. John was far from out of shape, but as time went on, and as they went up, something seemed to quiver deep inside him. His muscles started to ache, his heart started to pound. John felt himself start to wheeze.

What the ever-loving fuck? Frustration suffused John's limbs. He was a sodding soldier! Marching was what he _did. _This was not difficult. It was a steep incline, but it wasn't worse than marching up mountains. John knew from mountains. Why was he wheezing then? It was completely absurd. He was stronger than this. No—not just stronger; he was better _disciplined_ than this. And his damned leg—it wasn't a real limp! It hadn't bothered him at all in the Labyrinth, and that had had much more treacherous terrain.

London Below. It had to be because of something about Down Street. Maybe it made people tired, the way the Labyrinth made people lost?

John stole a glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock wasn't marching, because Sherlock never marched. Sherlock dashed, he ran, he strolled, he glided. He was walking. Walking quickly, but still walking. He wasn't out of breath. He was flushed a little from exertion, but nothing unhealthy. He wasn't wheezing.

John was sure he was red as a tomato. What the hell?

Sherlock paused when John stumbled, about four hours into walking up the bloody street, swearing.

"We should rest," he said, eyeing John.

"Don't be ridiculous," John hissed, "We're not that far behind them, we should—"

"—not fall over from exhaustion," Sherlock grumbled. He pointed to the far wall. "Sit."

John scowled, but he sat to the left of a torch in the wall, because if he didn't sit, he thought his leg might give way. He could feel his heart pounding, and his pulse throbbing in his ears. Sherlock rummaged in their pack and pulled out a protein bar, which he handed to John. He also pulled out a coffee.

"We're out of juice," he said. He sat next to John.

"You need a bar too," John insisted.

"Slows me down."

"Don't care," John said fiercely, and glared until Sherlock complied.

They shared the coffee between them and ate their bars in silence. John felt is heart calm with the rest even though it was fairly uncomfortable sitting on Down Street because of the slope. To John's horror, exhaustion tugged so hard on his aching limbs that he felt himself sway downward with the decline, despite his earlier few sips of coffee. He shook his head.

"We should go," he told Sherlock, "Before I fall asleep."

Sherlock eyed him.

"Twenty minutes," he said. He shuffled over so that he sat downslope of John. Sherlock nudged John's shoulder with his own. "Rest quick, John."

John almost protested, and then decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. God, he was tired. He let his head collapse down on Sherlock's shoulder, and was asleep almost instantly.

He had vague impressions of dreams. The color red, and heat. Somewhere, someone was giggling, and there was a—a bird? It cawed, and it was very frightening.

"John." Sherlock's voice dissolved the dream like sugar in tea. He sounded worried. "John, don't die."

"Huzzat?" John asked him fuzzily, lifting his head. He felt like he'd just closed his eyes.

"Your breathing patterns are that of a ninety-year old man," Sherlock told him unhappily, "And they're getting worse. We have to hurry."

John was about to ask him, _what the hell?_ He was about to say, _no ninety year old could climb this absurd street!_ He was about to say, _I'm fine, Sherlock, why are you worried? _

Then he remembered why ninety was a significant age, and _why_ Sherlock was worried.

"Oh," he said, and tottered to his feet. His leg did feel better for the nap. "We have any of that coffee left?"

Sherlock let him finish it.

Up they climbed, and up and up. John thought of death, and of dying, because he needed the bloody adrenalin to get him through this. Some aspect of himself—not his health or his shape, because those were pretty good—but some aspect of himself was ninety, and this sort of strain was extremely dangerous for someone of that age. He could drop dead any minute, and then where would Sherlock be?

He'd be alone and frightened in London Below. And he _was_ frightened in London Below—he needed John more than ever, down here. Sherlock knew London, and he knew logic, but London Below didn't always make sense, and when it didn't, Sherlock needed someone to lean on.

Like hell was he leaving Sherlock to deal with it alone.

So John gritted his teeth and marched on, like a good soldier. And on he marched, and on and on. Down Street wound around a great, dark well that went all the way down to the ground. John tried not to look down, because while he wasn't afraid of heights, at this point the spiral had become dizzying. The bottom was a long, long, long way down, and he didn't want to think about a fall like that.

But John did look up, and he was, after hours of marching short of breath, heartened to see that they were more than half way. His feet damn well felt like lead.

Sherlock didn't race ahead, or drag his feet. He stayed nearly glued to John's side. This would have been annoying—John wasn't an invalid yet!—but it was Sherlock, and Sherlock knew John. He didn't stare, or check on John, or any of those things. His eyes stayed forward, and he even let John stubbornly take the outer edge of their spiraling path without complaint. He only matched John, stride for stride, and didn't say a word.

It was good they didn't speak, really. John wasn't sure he had the breath for it, to be honest.

Hatred wasn't really an emotion John had ever associated with Down Street before, he mused as he huffed and puffed and marched stubbornly at Sherlock's side. Now it was.

Up they went, and up and up and around the spiral, again and again. John told himself the Labyrinth had had an end, and so this hellish street must have one too. He marched, and he marched, and he marched.

The rocky path curved, and leavened out. It widened a little and Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's wrist. At last, he stopped. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock gestured, and John looked up from his lead feet.

"Oh, what the hell," he blurted in dismay.

They'd come to the end of Down Street. That was clear enough, because the great spiral path cut off like the end of a ribbon. It ended in a ledge, like a broken bridge, and went nowhere.

Placed on the edge of the end of Down Street, was a tiny, absurd wooden plank, which led to a tiny absurd wooden platform that hung suspended from nothing.

"Are you bloody kidding me?" John spluttered indignantly. "We just spend hours walking up a sodding road that went _nowhere?_" The anger hid the fear.

If not Down Street, how were they supposed to get out of here? There was no place to go. There was the Labyrinth, and Down Street. If Down Street went nowhere, then what? How could they get out?

Sherlock squeezed John's wrist. "Stay here," he said softly.

"What do you mean, stay here?" John snapped. "Where the hell would I go?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to investigate the ledge. John's breath caught—he hated Sherlock near ledges, he hated Sherlock above him: anywhere Sherlock could fall was dangerous, made John sweat and his heart pound.

Sherlock crouched at the ledge, beside the plank. He reached over the edge, felt around the bottom. He prodded the plank and frowned. Then he stood and looked back to John.

"Perhaps—Oh!" His eyes fixed on the wall on the outer edge of the path.

"What?" John asked.

"There's a lift," Sherlock said brightly, and walked to the stone wall.

"There's a what," John spluttered, and followed him.

Tucked in the dark, sooty mortar between gray stone bricks, was a small, round elevator button. It was wood, painted black, but it matched the mortar so well it was nearly impossible to see. It was labeled.

UP

"Huh," said John. Sherlock pushed it with his thumb. Somewhere above, there was a buzzing sound, as in an old-fashioned human operated lift.

John and Sherlock looked up, into darkness.

Sherlock rang the lift again.

The silence of Down Street seemed louder after the second buzz.

"Great," John muttered, unenthused.

"Shh! Listen."

John listened.

There was a low groaning sound, like an ancient motor, and creaking. Something was moving up there.

Slowly—very slowly, John thought irascibly—a dark box began to descend. It was an antique service lift, painted in a peeling olive green. John and Sherlock watched it descend with almost comical slowness, before shuddering to a stop on the far wooden platform, on the other side of the ridiculous plank. The metal lattice door slid open with a bang.

"Of course," John muttered, rolling his eyes, "Of course we have to cross that thing. It doesn't look stable, but what fun would it be if it were? Why the hell doesn't it go to the ledge? That would make _sense!_"

Sherlock chuckled behind him. "It's London Below."

"Right," John agreed, exasperated. "I have no idea why I would ever expect anything down here to make sense." He made his way to the wooden plank, and crossed it carefully, muttering indignantly the whole way. He didn't have a fear of heights, but his heart did leap into his throat when he chanced a look down.

It was a very long way down.

Still, he made it across without incident, and onto the other wooden platform, and into the lift. It was very small on the inside. Sherlock followed after, and John held his breath as Sherlock strode confidently across the plank, over the great, gaping chasm beneath.

Sherlock smiled at him brightly when he walked into the lift.

The lift, which presented a problem. "Which button?" John asked him, baffled. There was a whole row of them, small and black and unlabeled, and John had no idea what floor they wanted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hit the next-to-last one. The lattice door slammed closed and the motor started up again. Slowly, creakily, the elevator began to rise.

"How did you know?" John asked.

"The button on the wall said 'up,'" Sherlock explained. "Which implies there isn't a 'Down.' It is likely, then, that we were in the basement. The next-to-last also has a great deal of wear, which suggests that it is the ground floor, and that we are not in a sub-basement."

"Some basement," John muttered.

Sherlock grinned at him. "I thought everyone kept a Labyrinth in their basement," he said blithely.

John burst out laughing.

The lift creaked and groaned and the motor sputtered and struggled. Still, it made its way up valiantly. The yawning emptiness around it was replaced by an elevator shaft, which was somewhat reassuring. Finally, it reached a promising looking wire door.

There was a footman on the other side.

When the elevator creaked and shuddered to a stop, the metal lattice banged open, and the footman opened the wire mesh door. Cautiously, eyes on the man, John stepped out.

Really, he should not have been surprised. The footman was wearing a powdered wig, of all things, but it was mussed. The powder was on his face, and the strands of fake hair were frizzed, as if he'd fallen down, or someone had pulled them out. It sat crookedly on his head, and a few strands of blonde hair were peeking haphazardly out from beneath it. His scarlet livery was tousled and torn, and when they approached, he cringed back.

He had a black eye, and he held himself gingerly, like his ribs hurt.

"Are you alright?" John asked, concerned, but Sherlock overrode him.

"The man who struck you," he said excitedly, "Can you describe him? Did he have anyone with him?"

The footman glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by a flinch and the black eye.

"Listen," John said gently, "I'm a doctor. You look wounded. If I help, will you tell us what we want to know?"

The footman eyed him mistrustfully. "I think," he said at last, wheezing a little, "That my ribs are broken." His eyes widened with alarm, and he shivered. He looked terrified.

John rushed forward. "Alright. It's alright. Can I see?" He slung the bag off his back and started rummaging for the first aid kit.

By the time he'd got it out, the footman had hesitantly begun to remove his tunic and jacket, but he watched Sherlock warily.

"He won't hurt you," John assured him, "And I won't either. I'll patch you up in exchange for information. It's a fair trade, right?" Although, in reality, John would patch him up for nothing. He looked awful. "What's your name?"

"Winston," the footman said. "You?"

"Doctor John Watson," John introduced himself. "He's Sherlock Holmes. I'm a London Above surgeon. Or—I was, anyway. I took an oath to do no harm to my patients, okay? And you're my patient. I really won't hurt you."

The footman seemed to relax at that. He removed his tunic, but he left his breeches on. John hissed in sympathy.

His chest was blotched and bruised. The skin had torn in places, and he was bleeding sluggishly. John held out his hands. "I'm going to check you for breaks, and listen to your breathing, alright? I need to touch you for that. May I?" At Winston's nod, John gently reached forward to feel the contusions. Winston flinched, but allowed the touch.

They didn't feel horrifically broken or shattered, which was good. Poor Winston did cringe as John felt around, though he tried his best to be gentle. A small fracture, maybe?

"A boot," Sherlock was saying excitedly. "Hunting boots. Steel toed. Yes?"

Winston nodded.

"I don't have a stethoscope," John apologized, "So I'm going put my ear against your back, okay? I want you to breathe."

John listened. His lungs didn't sound damaged, which was very good, but in all honesty he would really prefer an X-ray or a CT scan.

"Okay," John said. "You've either got a minor fracture, deep bruises, or both." He rummaged in the first aid kit. "I don't have any really good painkillers in here, so you should get some of those if you can. In the meantime—" He handed him two blister packs with two paracetamol pills each. "Not the greatest, but it's all I have. Swallow two, then wait four hours before taking the other two. Also—" he cracked their last remaining cold pack. "Have this, get yourself some real ice, if you can. Keep active, but take it easy. No heavy lifting or heavy strain, okay? Rest if you need to— just try to stay upright, except to sleep. Don't put pressure on it. I can give you a few breathing exercises to prevent a few lung infections. _Don't _wrap it; it could damage your lungs. Give yourself at least six weeks to take it easy, okay? If you need longer, take it."

Winston nodded. He blinked at the cold pack. "What—?"

"Put it against the break. Should keep down swelling," John told him. "But don't put pressure on it."

"Oh. Can I put my clothes back on?"

"Hang on, let me take care of some of these cuts."

The first aid kit had four antiseptic wipe packs left, so John used two of them to mop up where Winston was still bleeding, and he bandaged the wounds carefully.

When he was done, he asked, "Do you have any more injuries?"

"Some bruises on my legs," was the response. "But nothing else. Is that it?"

"Yeah, that's it." He patted Winston's shoulder gently.

He reached down for his tunic and winced, so John retrieved it, and helped him put it back on.

"Okay. You can alternate with that," John gestured at the pack. "It'll keep down swelling. On your eye, too."

"Thank you," Winston said.

"You're welcome. Could you answer some questions about who attacked you? Did he have anyone with him?"

"Yes," Winston said, as John helped him back into his jacket. "He was a young man, short, with red hair. His eyes—" he swallowed. "I've seen those eyes before in killers. Blue, like fine china. He had steel toed boots, as Mr. Holmes said, from London Above. Though the man was born Below, I can tell you that. He's an assassin; I know the type. He had with him—a man and woman, younger than him. He threatened the girl, and the boy listened. He was—" he dropped his voice to a whisper, "He said if I told anyone he'd—he'd cut out my throat!"

"Then we'll guess," Sherlock said excitedly. "Did the boy have strange eyes?"

"Yes, sir, they were many colors, like a gemstone or an opal," Winston said, catching on. "And the girl too. He—the boy, he—left a door." He bit his lip.

"Excellent!" Sherlock grinned. "Can you take us to it?"

"Yes, sir. Follow me." Gingerly, Winston meandered over to a side table by the elevator door. There was an elaborate candelabra standing on a small side table. He picked it up with a grimace.

"Ah—" John said, "Let me?"

"Thank you," Winston said. He handed the candelabra to John. It wasn't that heavy, though it did have a surprising weight to it. "This way."

He led them up a flight of drab wooden stairs, flinching every other step. "Take it slow," John told him in concern, and he glanced back. Winston set his lips stubbornly and climbed the stairs without another word.

He led them down a hall with a threadbare rug, and then up another flight of stairs with brown sacking that was rather sad looking. Up another flight, that was carpeted. Winston had to stop to rest, and John frowned at him.

"You shouldn't be taking this many stairs," John told him. "Not until you're stronger, at least."

"I'll take the elevator next time," Winston panted.

He led them up more stairs, and the carpeting became richer, lusher. Finally, they ascended a grand staircase with marble curling railings on its end and a deep, plush red carpet down its middle. At the top was a door that was cracked open. Light spilled through around the edges.

"It's supposed to go out to Brick Street," Winston whispered. "It goes somewhere else. The boy Opened it." John could hear the capital.

"Thank you," John told him. "Get some rest and some painkillers."

"I will." Winston nodded. He took the candelabra back from John and walked left down a hall. John watched the light from candles disappear around a corner, into the gloom. He turned back to Sherlock.

"You have your gun?" he asked John, grinning. John nodded. His gun had been snug in the small of his back since they'd entered the Angel's Cage, so long ago. His chest hurt, but he ignored it. "You'll need it."

* * *

><p>Through the door was a great, yellow fog. John stepped out first, and the mud nearly sucked off his shoe.<p>

"Ugh," he said unhappily.

"London Fog," Sherlock said behind him. John turned back to glance at him, and he saw Sherlock close the door. He was grinning.

"What?" John asked.

"Yellow river fog," Sherlock said, still grinning. "Pea-soupers. The last was in the 50s, before the Clean Air Act."

"People died in that fog," John frowned, remembering his studies. "Respiratory infections."

"This isn't the real thing. Come on." He started walking. John could hear his steps, shoes making sucking sounds as he pulled them out of the mud. John followed. His throat itched.

"What do you—?" John started. He hadn't felt particularly phlegmy before, but the cough came out thick and wet. Sherlock glanced back at him, alarmed, but John waved him off.

"It's an impression," Sherlock said, though he sounded concerned. He slowed his walk, so he was shoulder-to-shoulder with John. "Like the places in the Labyrinth."

John caught his breath. "Those were real, weren't they?"

"Illogical," Sherlock grumbled, and urged John along.

The fog was very thick. John had no idea where they were, or whether Sherlock knew where he was going. His breaths became wheezes again, and the wheezes became deep, wet coughing. Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do with the coughs. He walked closer to John with each one, so their shoulders knocked. He kept glancing over anxiously. Eventually, he took off his scarf.

"Breathe through this," he offered, "it might filter the air a bit."

John couldn't catch his breath. He took the scarf and held it in front of his nose and mouth. It didn't help much, but it helped some. "We've got to get out of this," he managed on a rasp.

Sherlock nudged him along. John was trying to ask, "Do you even know where you're going?" unsuccessfully through his hacking, when Sherlock ran ahead.

"S—herlo—" John gasped. He took three steps forward, and in front of him, the mist cleared, a little.

There was a bridge. He stepped forward again, and found Sherlock kneeling at its foot. Yellow mist swirled around him. In strange, disturbing eddies. John caught his breath on a wheeze.

There was a body.

Of course there was a sodding body. _No one_ could breathe with this kind of air. John couldn't quite see it, because the fog was affecting his vision. Sherlock was prodding at it, though, examining it with a frown. "We need to get out of this," John panted. He didn't even try to crouch beside Sherlock. He suspected he would fall over.

"He was murdered," Sherlock said. He stood smoothly. "Knife wound to the belly and throat, but he went down fighting. His killer is our kidnapper—look at the prints in the bud. Hunting boots, steel toed. Come on." He pulled John up the bridge.

Up they went, John dragging his feet forward with all his will. They thudded on the wooden boards, but finally, at the apex of the bridge, they were over the fog. John took a grateful, gasping breath. He bent, hands on his knees, and breathed.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked. He hovered uncertainly at John's side, which was fairly annoying, actually.

John was fine. He was bloody fine. It was just the fog. He made himself stand up. "Better. Let's go."

They walked quickly down the other side of the bridge. John thought, a little angrily, that they would normally be running, but to be quite honest, he doubted he had the breath or the strength to run. That fog had taken its toll, though Sherlock seemed okay, the bastard. At the bottom was a door that swung wide off one hinge, the other wrenched off. From inside, there was a shout.

Sherlock took off, John close behind. Adrenalin surged in his veins, making his exhaustion secondary. There was another body, this one clearly torn apart by a knife and very dead, but Sherlock leaped over it, hardly stopping, and John kept to his heels.

Through the door was a warren of stone corridors. There was another shout, and a woman's scream now. Sherlock swung toward the sound like a bloodhound on the trail, and they ran.

They raced down a corridor, and John's vision tunneled. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give in to the strange exhaustion settling over his limbs like snow. His feet slapped on the stone, and he heard his heart pounding in his ears. He loved this. He lived for this, to run at Sherlock's side. So why did it hurt so much?

No matter, no matter. Sherlock needed him.

Around a corner, there was another angry shout: a man's voice, pleading in French, followed by a woman's scream. The same woman, John thought. Two men and a woman?

They turned the corner, and Sherlock took a sharp left.

The room opened up. There was a fireplace burning cheerfully on the wall, and a dead man sprawled out before it, a poker through his neck. His robes—black, and thick like a monk—spread and sprawled softly around him, slowly seeping up the blood. John swung his tunnel vision around, and there was a man.

He was short of stature, slender with a shock of red hair. His jacket was military-issue, green camouflage, and very bloodstained. It had torn on the chest, where he had a great, deep claw mark, as from a tiger or a lion. He spun when John and Sherlock thundered into the room and bared his teeth in a feral snarl. His eyes were china blue and cold as ice, just as Winston had said.

This was most definitely their kidnapper.

Another man leapt forward to grip the kidnapper's arm. He was dressed in pale blue, a waistcoat and stockings, and his shoes had heels. He was also slender, but weedy with a shock of pale hair—couldn't be more than eighteen. "Please—!" he said with a heavy French accent. The man—the kidnapper; that must have been Sortie— threw him off, so he staggered to the side.

John's vision was going gray.

The kidnapper lunged at Sherlock, knife outstretched. Sherlock sidestepped, but the man kicked and he went sprawling. From the left, a woman with wild opal eyes and scars on her face charged, but the man flung her away with barely a thought. She hit a chair by the fireplace with a horrible sound, and the chair crashed to the ground in splinters.

The momentum carried her forward. She skidded against the marble floor, smearing it with blood. The boy cried out something, but John couldn't really hear.

His vision was tinting red now, and there was something—a sound in his ear, like the roaring of flames.

He pulled out his gun. "Get to the back of the room, hands above your head," he said, but the man only laughed.

Fast, faster than anything, the man picked up a piece of the broken chair and flung it at John's arm. John fired, but it went wide because he couldn't bloody see and he felt sick, like he would collapse. The piece of the chair was wooden, and it slashed John's wrist hard, knocking the gun to the floor. John staggered off balance, and the man rushed him.

There was a mad scramble for the gun, and Sherlock lunged from behind, grasping the man in a headlock. But he didn't seem to notice, instead ripping the gun nearly from John's hand and then bashing Sherlock's head with it, hard. Sherlock made a small sound and slid off his back to crumple on the floor, and that just wasn't on.

Furious, John raced forward. His feet pounded the stone floor with the beat of his heart. The man only laughed.

"Oh, so you want to die sooner, then?" he said, very civilized and calm. He actually dropped the gun and kicked it away, let John strike him. He was like marble, and John's knuckles burned.

He reached out casually, grasped John's wounded wrist and flung him, hard, clear across the room. Evidently his small size was deceptive, because he was very strong. John hit the far wall with a resounding slam that rattled his bones. All the breath left his lungs. He had not been expecting that.

His ears rung. Loudly, actually. It sounded like—a train?

Sherlock was snarling something very far away, and there was a muffled thump, and a metal skidding sound. The gun? The gun of the marble floor? The world was red now, and fuzzy as if John were trying to see under water. He pushed himself up.

"Non, non," said a soft voice. Sortie. That was French, right? Had to be Sortie. There was a hand on his back, gentle. "Stay down. He'll kill you."

"Sherlock," John rasped.

"Oh," breathed Sortie, sounding very young and very afraid. "Oh, no."

John pushed himself up. His muscles felt like butter and his vision was failing, black spots danced in the foggy red in front of his eyes.

The girl was sprawled unconscious on the marble floor, but she was breathing, so that was good. A scuffle and a thump, so faint over the train howling in his ears, the roaring of flames. John looked up, and over, and there was Sherlock, wrestling and badly losing against the bloodied kidnapper, with his steel-toed boots.

As he watched, grainy like an old television, Sherlock went down and the man kicked him hard in the ribs with those boots. Something went crunch, and John would have cried out in protest, but he had a better idea.

The gun was lying there, innocent by the corner of the rug. Sherlock must have kicked it. It was too far for John to reach, but Sortie...

"Gun," he whispered.

"What?" Sortie hissed.

"Gun—" God he could barely see and his muscles ached. John gestured as best as he could.

Sortie sucked in a breath.

The scuffling had got louder. Sherlock had curled into a ball, protecting his head, and the kidnapper in the boots was striking him. He had part of the broken chair, a huge splinter of wood, and he was thrashing Sherlock with it and kicking him, hard enough to make Sherlock whimper. John didn't know if Sherlock's distress was an act or not, and he didn't care.

Sortie crept forward, snatched the gun and skidded it across the floor so it scraped loudly. Silently, John cursed him, because the kidnapper looked up and saw.

"You little shit!" he shrieked, but by then it was too late. John had it, and he raised it.

Sortie gasped in what seemed like genuine terror. John glanced at him. He seemed haloed, hard to see. The black spots in his vision danced and danced.

It was just enough time.

The kidnapper had thrown his wooden slice of the chair at John and it struck him hard across the face. The black spots in front of his eyes turned green and danced, but it didn't matter. John only smiled in triumph. It would take fractions of a second for him to get across the room and to John; John only needed a fraction anyway.

The _crack!_ echoed in his ears. The kidnapper bellowed. The world was far away and very hazy.

But they needed him alive, didn't they? So the Arbiter didn't take their souls.

Might be too late for John's. So he didn't take Sherlock's soul, anyway. Like hell. _No,_ John thought furiously over the ringing in his ears. _One more. Need him alive, need— _

He sighted as best he could, pulled the trigger a second time. He heard someone shout, and hoped desperately that it wasn't Sherlock.

Everything went red.

* * *

><p><em>Red<em>

_ Red_

_Red _

_Red_

_The nightmare went like this:_

_Somewhere, Sherlock is screaming. John sees nothing but red light, blazing, burning hot red. Sherlock calls for John, he begs, he pleads. John tries to open his eyes, to call back, but when he inhales it burns and he chokes; when he opens his eyes, he screams, because they shrivel and broil. John's screams make no sound, because there is no sound to be made in the plasma-hot redness of the world. He has no throat and no mouth, but he burns inside and out, and blazing pain licks at the softest core of him._

_Somewhere, Sherlock falls from a high tower and dies again and again as he did in John's memory, only this time he does not come back. He cries for John, and then he just cries, and then he bleeds, and fades entirely into the red. There are faces in the redness, grim portraits in orange and crimson terror. There is Moriarty, and a bullet through John's shoulder, and enemy insurgents, and a cabbie with a pill, and every evil and fear to ever haunt his dreams. And it all hurts._

_John tries to make a sound, a howl, a wail, something to call Sherlock back, to make him not dead or not gone, or maybe just to scream, because everything is burning. He has no skin but something of him is burning up, burning away. Everything curdles and shrieks with pain and he can see the black cinders, the smoke—it's him. His very being, his very self, and he screams soundlessly with the horror of it, as everything goes dim and sickening and awful and it hurts so very much to turn to ash. He wants Sherlock. He wants Sherlock so badly, though not to save him, and not to be here—Sherlock doesn't deserve this, no one does—but he wants Sherlock because he loves Sherlock, and Sherlock meant safety and home and not this horrible, horrible red pain and red death and red nothing and the red goes on, and on and on and it's red forever and John is going to burn up—_

White.

Silence.

Cloying, horrific panic.

The feeling of being held.

He was kept someplace warm, and it was awful, the worst thing. John curled up in shaking terror, but the warmth never burned.

The world went fuzzy again, there was a feeling of motion and then blackness, and he wanted to sob and sob.

"John." A voice he loved, raspy with worry.

The first noise John made was a scream.

* * *

><p>It went on and on and on. John choked off into coughing, sobbing, and the tears were hot on his cheeks and that was terrifying.<p>

"Cold!" said a man's voice, sharp. "Get something cold—now!"

A flurry of movement. A voice John loved was swearing. Then there was something cold on his forehead, wiping the hot tears from his cheeks.

Water.

"Shh," whispered the voice he loved, "I have you now. You're safe, John. You're safe."

John breathed hard. "Ice," said the voice he loved sternly to someone else, "And real towels. Quickly! Sortie—Sortie, how—?"

"He's burned," said a second voice, male and softly accented. "But not lost, I do not think. Only hurting and frightened." A hand took John's, warm. John choked on another scream.

"Non," whispered the second voice, "Non, Je—John. Listen, now. Not the warmth but the touch." Pressure on his hand. "Feel. You are not in pain. Can you open your eyes?"

A word. John said it, hoarse with fear. "Burns," he gasped, eyes still squeezed shut.

"No," said the voice he loved fiercely, "You're safe here." Pressure on his other hand, wet and cold but warming. "You can open your eyes." Pause. "Yes?" he asked someone. A wet palm pressed into the side of his face then, and fingers brushed his lashes. The water kept the hand from feeling very warm, and made it soothing instead.

"Yes," said the second voice, French accented. "You will not burn here. I will _kill_ my Uncle for hurting my rescuers. You're safe, John."

The hand lifted from John's eyes. Hesitantly, he peeked one open. The world was blurry, but the air was cool, so he risked the other one.

The ceiling above him was arched and gray. To one side, there was a dark head with a halo of black curls hovering over him. Sherlock smiled with relief when John met his eyes.

"Hello," Sherlock said, very tenderly. His face was black and blue. He had a slash on his forehead and a black eye, and what looked like a boot print on his chin. He was holding his ribs gingerly, and had one arm in a sling. John had never been happier to see him.

"Sherlock," John whispered, and the horrible burning tears welled up. He huffed with panic at the hot sensation, squeezing his eyes shut.

A hand in his hair, fretful. "You're alright," Sherlock said. "I have you. You're alright, John." A thumb swiped away one of the burning tears from the corner of his eye. That could only be good, right?

"Hurts," John whispered.

"Only the edges," said the French accented voice with forced cheer. "You were not in the furnace for long. Maybe an hour or so? It takes years for a soul to burn to cinders. You will heal. You might not even go mad." Beat. "Do you remember who I am, John?"

Of course he did. "Sortie," John rasped.

"Yes," Sortie said encouragingly. "See," he added, must have been to Sherlock, "He is not brain damaged. He will be fine. Oh, thank you, Brother Fuliginous. Here, John. Can you open your mouth?"

Like hell. John clenched his jaw shut.

"Give me that," Sherlock snapped. Something cold pressed against John's lips. "It's ice, John," Sherlock murmured, almost crooned. "It'll cool you down."

Ice. Wary it was a trap, but trusting Sherlock, John opened his lips, and let Sherlock push an ice chip onto his tongue. He savored it as it melted, opening his eyes when it was gone "Another?" he rasped hopefully.

Sherlock beamed at him. He rattled the cup, which he held in his good hand. "Will you sit up?" he asked.

He could, couldn't he? He had a body. He was lying on a low cot, covered with a sheet. John wriggled. When he tried to get his hands on the bed, to push himself up, he flinched hard and gasped. Fiery pain shot up from his fingers. Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Easy," he said. "Here." he set the cup on the bed and he carefully took one of John's hands by the wrist. His hand was warm, and John had time to tremble once before he closed John's fingers around the cup of ice.

"Oh," John sighed. "Oh, that's better." He brought his other hand up to clutch at the cup, too.

John struggled to sit up without his hands, but his muscles felt like soup—hot soup, because they burned when he tried to use them. Sherlock curled his good arm around John's shoulders, though, helping him upright. His arm was warm, and that was fairly awful, but he was Sherlock, and John managed to accept the touch without flinching. "Where am I?" he asked, looking around.

Sherlock was sitting cross legged at the side of John's cot. It was low enough that that gave him full access to John, lying there. It seemed his legs were fairly undamaged, though the rest of him looked really quite terrible. He was black and purple nearly all over. Standing a little to his right was a boy of about eighteen, finely dressed in pale blue silk. He had fair hair and a thin face and bright, distinctive opal eyes. He smiled warmly at John.

"You are at the Black Friars', my son," said a third voice, low and smooth. John glanced up.

In the doorway was a man wearing a black robe. He was fairly small and fairly young, but he was an adult, not a child. His skin was like mahogany, and he was smiling warmly.

"We crossed Blackfrair's Bridge to get here, do you remember?" Sherlock asked.

Fog. Dead man in black robes. Bridge with wooden planks. It seemed like a lifetime ago. "Who—" John coughed. "Did you get the kidnapper?" he asked.

The man in the doorway frowned darkly. "He killed four of our order," he said.

"He was going to kill everyone," Sortie said. "He almost killed Ingress and Sherlock. You saved us, John. You saved all of us." He smiled.

"You shot out his kneecaps," Sherlock told him. "Before—before—"

"Just before your time was up," Sortie said enthusiastically, "You shot out his knees. Perfect shot! How did you do it without being able to see? You must teach me! Uncle can procure me a revolver, probably."

John blinked at his enthusiasm. "I'm—a good shot," he managed. Sherlock barked out a laugh that sounded just this side of hysterical.

"The best," he said.

"What happened after?" John asked.

"He fell," Sherlock said, "Obviously, he fell. Sortie bound his hands and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth, and I told him to make a door to the Underside line. We brought Croup—it was Croup, the son of Mr. Croup, trapped with the angel—back to the Arbiter, along with Sortie in exchange for you. I brought you here, Sortie put you back and you woke up."

"Mr. Vandemar ate all his children," the monk—no, friar, must be one of the Black Friars, John thought woozily, because it was sodding London Below—added. "Not really surprising, given his disposition, but it did show rather a lack of foresight. The boy—Croup Junior; I believe his name was Evander—was attempting to take over the family business. To do this, he had to kill his father, who was Elsewhere. He had an Opener, but he needed the Key. Our Order protects the Key."

"Obvious," Sherlock sighed. "Had I the data, it would have been obvious. This case was a two at best, John. You are not allowed to die for a _two_."

John stared at him. He huffed once, twice, and then he was laughing, his chest ballooning with joy. It helped dissipate the horrid burning sensation that still lingered deep beneath his skin.

"You prat!" he managed, snickering, "This wasn't a bloody two! We're stuck in _London Below._ No one remembers us! We need a whole different rating system because literally everything here is dangerous and this case was sodding _life changing_."

Sherlock scowled. "Yes, but it was _still a two. _The kidnapper was obvious, John! If I had known the history, and the culture of Below, I would not have needed to leave the Underside line! You would not have—you wouldn't've—" He gulped.

He wouldn't have burned. But Sherlock's eyes were huge and guilty, so John smiled and reached for his hand. Sociopath his arse. The burning was fading, like a really, truly awful dream, though he still ached under his skin. The laughter had helped.

"It wasn't your fault," John murmured. "You still got me out. I'm alive because of you."

"You're _here_ because of me," Sherlock said, obviously distressed. "Of course it's my fault."

"I wouldn't have missed it," John told him. He squeezed, even though it hurt his aching hand. "Really." He let go, and reached up to touch Sherlock's eyebrow, bruised and blackened. "Are _you_ alright?"

"Bruises," Sherlock told him, a little choked. He shuffled closer to the bed. "I'm fine."

"What about the woman?" John asked, looking up to Sortie. "There was a woman."

"Unconscious," Sortie said. "But she'll be alright."

"Ingress," Sherlock whispered. "She's Ingress. Door's missing sister. Croup found her first, but she never learned how to Open doors properly because she was kidnapped so young. She couldn't do the door to Elsewhere."

"She can only unlock things," Sortie explained, "Not Open them."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," John said woozily. "But now we've paid off Door, right? We don't owe her now?"

Sherlock gave a strangled laugh. He sounded exhausted, and grateful. "Yes," he said. "We don't owe anyone anymore."

* * *

><p>John slept. His nightmares had escalated to night terrors now, and he would wake screaming and thrashing. Sherlock had taken a cot next to his, and would wake in the night, and talk him down. Sometimes he would bring him ice from one of the brothers.<p>

The Black Friars were very grateful that John had saved them. Apparently, Evander Croup had killed their best fighters as well as their Abbot, and would have killed the lot of them just to get the Key to Elsewhere.

"A copy of the Key to Reality," Brother Fuliginous had told John one morning. He frequently brought John breakfast, cold fruit and cheese because John still couldn't stand anything warm. Sherlock slept through most mornings.

"A copy?" John asked.

"Mm, yes. The Warrior of London holds the true Key. It could not be in better hands. The copy, however, was made by the Lady Door, and goes Elsewhere. She gave it to us for safekeeping."

"Oh," John said, because he couldn't think of anything better to say.

Sortie came and went. He checked on John fairly frequently. "You saved my life," he'd say earnestly. "Sherlock brought me home. You do not owe my Uncle anything, but _I _owe you."

"The Arbiter's your uncle?" John asked.

"No," scoffed Sherlock. He was sitting next to John on the small cot, reading a book that one of the Friars lent him.

"No," agreed Sortie. "But he is my caretaker. He isn't my father, but he is—family, if not by blood. Drempel called him brother, because they were close in age. I decided on Uncle."

"And he's—he's good to you?" John asked.

"Oh, very!" Sortie beamed. "He loves his Openers. He got me Perroquet, my raptor. I'll take her to meet you next time I come, yes?"

Sherlock pressed just a little closer to John, though he didn't look up from his book. It couldn't be comfortable—he had at least two broken ribs—but John leaned into him, just a little, for reassurance. Sherlock still didn't like to talk about the Arbiter, and he had screaming nightmares about the Fireman. John couldn't blame him. The Fireman featured in his nightmares, too.

Still, it was good Sortie wasn't afraid of them, at least.

"You named your—your dinosaur?" John asked.

"Of course! She's quite lovely. Would you like one? A dinosaur, I mean? I should like to get you something, or give you something. I owe you, after all, and I wish to pay my debt."

"Ah—ha—" John managed, unsure how to even go about refusing. What the hell would he do with a dinosaur? Besides, he was uncomfortable accepting a gift. He'd saved Sherlock's life and paid the Arbiter, that was what mattered.

"A place to live," Sherlock said, looking up from his book.

"What?" John asked him, but Sherlock had fixed Sortie with frown.

"We need a safe place to live, inasmuch as anything in London Below can be safe. Can you create a door that only John and I can open? A place that only we can access?"

Sortie lit up like a Christmas tree. "Of course! Do you have a door in mind?"

Sherlock grinned. "Perhaps."

"What, seriously?" John asked him. "Did you just ask him for a _house_?"

"No," Sherlock sighed. "I asked him for a _door. _He's an Opener; do keep up."

"Yeah, but a door to where?"

"221C, of course," Sherlock said imperiously.

"_What?_ Sherlock, that's in London Above!"

"Of course it's not, John," Sherlock sighed. "Why do you think Mrs. Hudson could never rent it?"

"But Carl Powers' shoes were there?" John asked.

"Alright," Sherlock said, "Describe it to me. 221C. What did it look like?"

John blinked. "Uh," he said, "Bare walls? Peeling wallpaper, kind of damp?"

"What was the layout?"

John frowned.

"It's entirely unremarkable," Sherlock said after a beat. "And I know for a fact that Mrs. Hudson wasn't half so invested in renting out C as she was for B. She hardly thought about it—hardly spoke about it. You barely remembered it existed, and I frequently forgot about it without deleting it. It's important to know the layout of one's own home—had it been memorable, I would have kept it, especially after Carl Powers' shoes.

I've seen the building plans; when the building was first built, it was numbered quite differently. Mrs. Hudson, for example, lives in the original C flat. We lived in what used to be A. But B was frequently forgotten, so one of the previous Landlords changed the lettering, leaving the last, most overlooked flat to fall into London Below."

"So you're saying that you want London Below's version of 221 B Baker street, you sap," John told him, grinning.

"If you object—" Sherlock started huffily, but John laughed.

"No, of course not. It's brilliant, actually." He turned to Sortie. "You could do it? Really?"

"Of course. I would be happy to help." He smiled, big and bright. "And I am sure you would rather finish your recovery in your home."

"Yes," Sherlock cut in. "We would. I would like two doors, however—one that leads in and out of London Below, and one that leads in and out of London Above. An escape route."

Sortie shrugged. "Doable."

"Excellent."

* * *

><p>They left the Black Friars some time after that. John honestly had no idea who long it had been. Sherlock's ribs looked a little better, though nowhere near fully healed. John could walk again, which was nice, though his fingers and toes still prickled, and occasionally stung like a healing burn.<p>

"It's your edges," Sortie said as they strolled down a long, cobbled street. Mist swirled around their feet, and there were gas lamps spaced periodically as they walked, though the light they cast did not go far. "You weren't burned much, but the edges of your soul got cooked. It wasn't much damage, but it was enough to hurt, and it'll ache some before it heals. Souls take longer to heal than bodies. I am sorry about that. If you ever run into the Underside Line again, I'll be sure to be there and tell my Uncle to leave you and Sherlock alone."

John huffed. "I doubt we're ever going to go back that way. No offence."

"None taken," Sortie sighed. "No one likes the Underside Line. That's what Uncle told me—we'll see the world, any time and place I like, but there aren't many we can call a friend." He gave John a melting, sad look.

"Oh, please," Sherlock grumbled, bad-tempered. They walked slowly because Sherlock could not walk at any other speed, with his ribs still healing. The pain as well as the slow speed put him in an ill mood, only participating in the conversation to snarl at them. He spent most of the time watching Perroquet.

Sortie had brought his dinosaur to walk with them as they made their way to Baker Street. He could make the door anywhere, but it would be easier to make a door going to a specific place if it was near that place anyway. Since the door was so specialized, and since Sherlock obviously wanted to be on Baker Street more than he would say, Sortie had taken them on foot along the lane.

Perroquet whistled and echoed and frolicked around Sortie gleefully, like a strange mixture of a puppy and a parrot. Sherlock seemed fascinated around his discomfort, and the dinosaur gamboled around him, too, chirping curiously and whistling. The white mist eddied and swirled around the creature's bottom half, as it raced ahead and behind and around them, herding them like a sheepdog.

"Be nice," John told Sherlock, smiling. "Friends are always good to have." He smiled at Sortie, who beamed back at him. "Though we'll thank you if you keep the Arbiter and the Fireman far away from both of us."

Sortie scowled. "Devorat doesn't ever leave the train, don't worry, and Uncle is not particularly sociable. I'm sorry they frightened you."

Sherlock snorted blackly.

Perroquet let out a high pitched trill that became a raspy caw, like a particularly pissed off crow. In the distance, John could hear the clip-clopping of a horse on cobblestone.

"Perroquet! _Au pied_," Sortie said sharply, and the raptor cawed aggressively again, but slunk close to Sortie's legs. "Stay close," he added to John and Sherlock.

Through the darkness, a horse came into view. Its eyes glowed a little disturbingly, and its rider was dressed in armor. "Hail," said the rider, deep-voiced.

"Bonjour," said Sortie politely. The dinosaur snarled at his heels.

The rider regarded them, and the nudged his horse and continued on his way. the sound of hooves on cobbles faded into the mist.

"Uh," John asked.

"Watch out for them," Sortie said darkly, "Especially if you're going to be living in this neighborhood."

"What are they?" Sherlock asked, and sounded like he hated asking.

"They don't really have a name," Sortie said uncertainly. "But they'll rob you blind."

"You mean that literally, don't you?" John said, exasperated.

"Of course I do," Sortie said.

"Marvelous. Why didn't he mug us, then?"

"Perroquet," Sherlock said, eyes following the horseman. "A poor idea to attack a group with a raptor as protection, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sortie agreed. "At the next Floating Market, I would suggest getting yourselves a guard dog of some kind. Even if you can defend yourself, they are quite nice to have." He reached down and patted the dinosaur's head, which came up to about his waist. "_C'est bien, Perroquet,_" he added, and the dinosaur wriggled.

"Great. Hang on, _this_ neighborhood? This is Baker Street?" John spluttered.

"Of course. Don't you recognize it?"

Sherlock hummed, looking around. John followed his gaze.

The mist was no higher than their ankles, but the street was dark, hardly lit at all by the gas lamps. It was cobblestone, too, which, while not utterly foreign, was certainly different. John didn't recognize it at all.

"As it was first built, perhaps," Sherlock said offhandedly, "And I imagine parts of it are still marshland."

"Yes," said Sortie.

"Excellent," said Sherlock. "We want 221B."

"Unless someone's already living there," John added hesitantly, "Then we want somewhere else."

But there was no one else there but a few rats, as it turned out, scrounging around for scraps. John gave them some chunks of one of their last protein bars, in exchange for the rooms.

"Also," he told them, "If you can find the Lady Door, tell her that her sister is with the Black Friars. She's fairly badly beaten up, but she'll be alright. And from Doctor Watson—tell her thanks for the time."

One of the rats squealed at him, and they scarpered.

"Is it to your liking, then?" Sortie asked. John stood up.

Sherlock had disappeared somewhere in the flat, but John wasn't particularly worried. They'd come in from the street, rather than from the front door in London Above. While the place had looked horrid the last time he was here—when he lived in London Above, when Carl Powers' shoes were here—having experienced London Below, and not being part of London Below, it looked bloody marvelous.

There was a fireplace and a kitchen, a sitting room and even two bedrooms. It even had running water and Electricity, which John thought was practically luxury for London Below, though he worried it might cost Mrs. Hudson if they used it. They'd have to find a way to pay her back.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said, striding back into the sitting room. "This should do quite nicely. I would like a door to London Above as well, however."

"Why?" Sortie asked, but he strode over to the front door, which led to the rest of the building. When he touched it, it swung open onto the familiar landing of 221, London Above. Perroquet bounded over to snuffle the threshold, huffed disapprovingly, and stalked back toward the dark fireplace to sniff at the poker.

"Escapes," Sherlock shrugged. "Also to get some of our things."

"And food from the markets," John said with a wry smile.

Sortie shrugged, "If it's what you wish. A front door to Below and a back door to Above, and you're the only ones they'll open for. Is my debt paid?"

Sherlock and John shared a look, and then John smiled at Sortie. He held out his hand. "Yes, I should think so. Thank you."

Sortie beamed at him. "Thank _you_!" He shook John's hand enthusiastically.

When he and his dinosaur left, John turned to Sherlock. "We're going to need to find ourselves some furniture," he said wryly, and Sherlock laughed and laughed.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Blackpaw raced through the pipes of the Underground. Somewhere below her, a train thundered by in its tracks, and she could hear the faint strains of the Earl's jester singing, slowly fading as the train carried them farther away.<p>

She hopped over puddles and stopped to sniff at a discarded crisp bag, but sadly it was empty, so she raced on. She had some very important news, too important for a Ratspeaker. It had to be delivered in person.

The House without Doors was easy to find, if you knew where to look. Or, at least the white room was.

Out of the pipe and onto a station, and then through a grate and down, down, until she reached a doorbell, which she pressed with both paws.

And when it opened, the Lady Door was smiling, bright hopeful eyes. "Hello," she said.

_Your sister is injured, _Mrs. Blackpaw said, urgently, _But Dr. Watson said she will be well. She is with the Black Friars. He says 'thank you for the time.'_

Door choked. "Oh—oh god. Thank you—thank you so much!" She had a slice of apple in her hand, and she offered it to Mrs. Blackpaw, who accepted it gravely. It was sweet and lovely.

_Good day to you, milady, _she said politely.

"Oh, yes. Very good day to you!" the Lady Door laughed, and looked over her shoulder. "Richard!" she cried, "Richard, take your key—we're going to the Black Friars!"

Mrs. Blackpaw bid her goodbye as soon as she had finished the apple, and then scarpered back to the nest, feeling well accomplished.

There was a new boy in the nest, and he was sitting with Wiggins, wide eyed and amazed. They both greeted her politely as she passed, and then continued on with their conversation.

"So you're saying," The new boy was gaping, "there's a wood on Wood Street, savages in Savage Gardens, Down Street goes down and there's a baker on Baker Street?"

"There isn't a baker on Baker Street," Wiggins told the boy imperiously.

"But that's not what you said!" said Little Bill, crossing his arms in frustration.

_Sherlock Holmes lives on Baker Street, _said Mrs. Blackpaw, _He's a detective. He and Doctor Watson found the Lady Door's sister. _

"They should call is Holmes Street, then!" The new boy cried, exasperated. "I thought everything here was lit'ral."

Wiggins rolled his eyes. "You idiot, it's just the opposite. I'm sorry for his disrespect, Mrs. Blackpaw—he's yet to learn his place."

Mrs. Blackpaw chuckled. _You were just the same. It's no trouble._

Wiggins smiled to her sweetly. Honestly, it was a good thing that Holmes had killed the Baker—such a shame it would have been to lose this boy. "_Nothing_ is literal here," He added to the new boy. "Mrs. Blackpaw says Sherlock Holmes lives on _Baker_ Street, and that's the end of it! Now. Earl's Court—"

* * *

><p>Epilogue to come! Don't forget to drop a review :)<p> 


	5. Epilogue

EPILOGUE:

"Are you sure this is what you wanted?" Ingress asked, eyeing John and Sherlock skeptically. She was leading them through a series of tunnels and corridors that occasionally opened up into cobbled, misty streets. Sherlock marked their path, and surreptitiously observed her.

She was a small girl, Ingress. She'd clearly been malnourished as a child and it had stunted her growth. Her face was scarred, her strange, opal Opener's eyes hard as flint. She lived with her sister now, the Lady Door and her security Richard, but it was clear she was chafing. She'd been running scared all her life, and she'd grown used to it, grown to like the adrenalin.

Just like John, frankly. Sherlock liked her.

"Yes, we would quite like to speak to Worth," John was saying wearily. "Just to wrap up his case. So we know what the bloody hell happened to him. It's driving Sherlock mental."

John had quite the ear for exaggeration. Sherlock was _going_ to work it out. Clearly, it was his process that was driving _John_ mental. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. "It is not."

John rolled his eyes. He leaned over and nudged Sherlock's shoulder companionably. It made a warm sense of belonging curl around his heart, though he did his best to ignore it. "Liar," John teased.

"Well, it's not like I have anything else to do, and I owe you my life," Ingress sighed. She was obviously lying; she had lots of other things to do, chief among them learning to Open properly from her sister. "It's a pretty stupid favor to ask, frankly."

"As far as I am concerned," Sherlock told her smugly, because he was learning the rules of London Below and they were ever so much better and more complex than Above, "You owe John a life debt, not me. You owe me a favor for making the Black Friars treat you, that's all."

She spared him an admiring look. "You're a sneaky bastard, aren't you? No wonder Sortie liked you."

John chuckled. "How are things with him, anyway?"

Ah, John was such an idiot. But his stupid questions had become reassuring, after a while, rather than irritating. It was obvious that Ingress had no romantic interest in Sortie, not because she disliked him but because he represented a dream of home that she had given up long ago. Besides, he couldn't marry anyway—he was the Opener of the Underside Line. Tradition demanded that he remain celibate, which John would know if he paid any attention at all. He would find that tragic, if he knew, Sherlock mused, but Sherlock just found it interesting. The traditions Below were fascinating.

"Yeah, he's alright," Ingress said guardedly. "We write."

"That's good," John said, oblivious as always. He smiled. "And you? You're getting along with your sister?"

No, she wasn't. They'd had a screaming row this morning, because Ingress was scarred and traumatized and Door had been unprepared for the reality of Ingress the adult. Obvious.

"Mostly," Ingress muttered, like any rebellious teenager. She stopped walking and pointed upward. Sunlight trickled through holes in a manhole in dribs and drabs. Obviously, it led to London Above, and an above ground train platform, going by the sound of the footsteps and the vague smell of metal. "Anyway, the Ravenscourt platform should be just through here." She Opened the manhole. "Am I done now?"

Ingress was supposed to learn how to be a full Opener from her sister, but their relationship was clearly too rocky. Had it been Door, and not Ingress, who helped them, they would not have had to walk all the way to Ravenscourt Station. Ingress could only open existing doors and not make new ones, the way Door could, so they had to walk.

The walk, however, was far from a waste of time. Sherlock cataloged everything he saw, learning the ways and passages of London Below. It wasn't often they had a guide.

Baker Street to Ravenscourt was quite the hike, but it was all a learning experience. Sherlock had deleted several unnecessary details, such as traffic patterns of London Above, so there was plenty of room for the mysteries of Below.

He was reasonably sure he could get them home without dying. It was the _reasonably_ that made it exciting. "Yes. Thank you for your help," Sherlock said. "You still have a life debt to John."

Ingress harrumphed and stormed off, into the darkness of London Below.

John watched her go in silence and then turned to Sherlock, raised his eyebrows. "You sure you can get us home?"

"Nearly," Sherlock grinned at him, and John rolled his eyes. He grinned back, though, because he enjoyed the danger just as much as Sherlock did.

He went before Sherlock through the manhole, holding his gun warily, but he hadn't needed to. The manhole had led to the Above station, and sunshine, or as much sunshine as London ever had, poured through. Sherlock followed him up onto the platform.

Ravenscourt station was familiar, and it looked like it always had, much to Sherlock's relief. The platform was above ground and cheerful, with great white and orange awnings and yellow strips painted by the edges. He took a deep breath of Above air.

At least it wasn't raining, Sherlock thought, but then he caught John's delighted grin. John's smiles were infectious. Sherlock found himself returning the expression, feeling an uncomplicated bloom of happiness in his chest in response to John's joy. Sentiment. Ridiculous, but pleasant all the same.

"Haven't seen real sun in ages," John said cheerfully. "It's all been echoes underground."

There wasn't really much to say to that, except to agree, but another voice interrupted.

"Oh, no," it said. Sherlock recognized it, of course.

"Mr. Worth," he said with relish.

Oliver Worth was sitting with his back against one of the columns holding the awning over the platform. He was disheveled and unkempt, and looked exhausted. His life had clearly come at great personal cost: the black feather around his neck seemed to signify fealty to the Raven, for whom Sherlock immediately searched.

He found him, easily enough: he was sitting on the white awning above the platform, a tall slender man, legs in black stockings but without shoes, and his cape made of black feathers. His hair was gray and his olive skin was wrinkled. He met Sherlock's eyes and winked, giggling and kicking his feet like a child. There were three other men, of varying ages and wearing feathered capes, all sitting cross legged behind him. A girl, without a cape but still wearing black, stood on her tiptoes on the top of the awning, balancing as if she were about to fly away. She must have been the Raven's daughter, by the way she turned her back on all the other men. Only a woman of high rank would be permitted to do that, and she was not yet grown.

"I told you to go home and shower, didn't I?" sighed Worth, utterly ignoring the men on the roof. It was clear he had been living rough on the platform, panhandling for scraps. "You never should have come back for me; I told you it was dangerous. And you've brought your flatmate down with you."

John shrugged easily at Sherlock's side, which did something to alleviate the guilt that Sherlock shoved into the basement of his mind palace. "It's been an adventure so far," John said, "Can't complain."

Idiot. Clearly the furnace had burned out something vital, and wasn't that an awful thought.

"What d'you want, then?" sighed Worth. "I can't take care of you, or anything, and it looks like you already haven't died, so. If you want advice, I'd say swear fealty to my Lord Raven and he'll look after us."

Sherlock had suspected as much: the man who brought another down Below owed something to the one they brought. Not that he particularly cared, or needed anything. Clearly Worth couldn't afford to give them anything, anyway.

Sherlock would give John anything he asked for, but he would have done that anyway, even if he hadn't dragged John down here. John already knew that, though. They were in this together. There were no favors bought and sold between them.

"No advice," Sherlock said. "We want your story. How did you fall down here?"

"I told you, didn't I?" asked Worth.

"You said it was your cat," John pointed out wryly, and the Raven, sitting on the awning, let out a raucous, crowing laugh. His flock, or whatever the absurd group of men on the awning was called, cawed and cackled behind him. John jumped.

He clearly hadn't thought to look _up_ for someone who went by the epithet _Raven._ Stupid John. Sherlock would keep him safe.

"Good afternoon, my Lord!" called Sherlock. John sent him an incredulous look, but then grinned, laughter behind his eyes. Sherlock felt his lips twitch, and he tried not to laugh. Yes, it was completely mad, but what had John expected, honestly? Worth had called the Raven _Lord_; Sherlock took his cue.

"And good afternoon to you, good sir," the Raven rasped, standing on his awning and bowing low. His flock watched Sherlock with bright black eyes, but did not rise. The Raven spread his feathered cape like it was a pair of wings. "Have you brought me coin?"

"Oh, yeah," John said brightly, because they had in fact prepared for this. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John pulled out the shiny silver and fake jewel encrusted _London!_ keychain. It was the ugliest, most gaudy thing Sherlock had ever seen, but Ingress had proclaimed it perfect when John dug it up from god knew where.

The Raven held out an imperious hand, and John tossed it up to him. "We only want to speak to your subject," John said amiably. "Ten minutes?"

"Acceptable," said the Raven in his hoarse voice. He passed the bauble to his flock, who immediately started twittering over it.

"Your cat," Sherlock grumbled, turning back to Worth, and then he realized, because it was obvious. "Oh, oh but it _was_ your cat, wasn't it? You've got cat hair on your trouser leg. Your cat got lost Below and you followed it. You still have it, in fact; it sleeps in what passes for your bed. That was a really, remarkably stupid decision."

Worth scowled. "Yes, thank you for that."

"So that's it?" John sighed. "All this for a cat?"

"'Fraid so," Worth said dully. "Sorry I ruined your lives."

The man was clearly a moron. "Ruined? No, not ruined! Here but for the grace of a cat." He turned to John and beamed. "I'll never be bored again, John!" Sherlock told him gleefully, and John chuckled.

"That is definitely true."

Worth blinked. "Okay. Well. You can still swear fealty."

"No, of course not, why would we do that?" Sherlock scoffed.

John nudged him, silently scolding for the rudeness. "No offense meant, of course," he said to the Raven. "But we like being free agents. If you have anyone needing medical assistance, by the by, I've opened up a practice Below. I'll soothe your ills and Sherlock will solve your murders, for a favor." He smiled. The sales pitch, Sherlock thought, was absurd, but if it got him murders, he didn't care.

"Murders?" the Raven cocked his head. His flock, behind him, squawked and shuffled then. He held out a hand to them, and they quieted, but the girl turned and regarded Sherlock. Her eyes were deep and intense, and she had a scar, as if from a claw, down her left cheek. Interesting.

The Raven jumped down from the awning and fluttered to the cement platform, watching John and Sherlock with bright, intelligent bird's eyes. "My wife was murdered. I found her dead. I'd like to peck the eyes out of the one responsible. Find out who did it and I can give you free access to my lands, and the protection of my guard."

Sherlock felt something like joy bubble up in his chest. "Oh," he said, "Oh, we'd be delighted."

THE END.

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